Pavlov's Dogs
by East-Coast-Invictus
Summary: When nobody stands up to take responsibility for the death of his oldest son, James, Edward Norrington embarks on a journey to dredge up the one thing nobody seems able to give him – the truth.
1. Part I

**Part I: July 1711 – May 1715**

At first, he hadn't believed it. Didn't want to believe it. Refused to believe it.

But there it sat, an item of damnation too complete and terrible in its judgment to not exist. It marked the end.

Edward Norrington placed his hands next to the resignation letter. A hollow formed in the very center of his chest as if a maelstrom had sucked out his heart and breath. The details in what lay before him stood out with stark and sudden clarity.

He could see the lines in his hands, the scar across the back of the left one that curved up and disappeared into his sleeve from a rigging accident. Even after the many years since the event, the scar still shone white against the fading tan of his skin. He could see how the gold band on his ring finger glinted in the sunlight streaming in from the window. The folds in the letter were like canyons. A stain from some manner of liquid that only just colored the edge of one corner seemed to take up the whole sheet. The script of the letters was tight and small, black as tar. Even so, tremors in the writer's hand had nearly botched several of the words. There must be multiple destroyed drafts in a fireplace somewhere.

At least he had been able to sign his name. At least he summoned some manner of courage to see it through. The signature, the largest thing on the paper, seemed to burn there at the bottom of the letter, bright but like the final death throes of a man dying who didn't want to die. Reading the forceful and bold _James M Norrington_ created the hollow in Edward Norrington's chest.

**...**

When his daughter came running up to greet him as he came in the door, he barely noticed until she had thrown her arms around his neck in the oblivious happiness of seeing her father home from work. Drawing away, though, Eliza quickly picked up on the fact that something was wrong.

His mind registered her question, but his body led him into the library to his favorite chair before the fireplace. Eliza followed at a distance, concern knitting her fair brow and saddening her brown eyes. She called for her mother. Katherine Norrington found her daughter hovering in the hallway, eyes on her father's elbow that always poked out from behind the great chair.

"Edward? Darling?"

When there was no answer, the two women exchanged looks and crept into the room.

Mr. Norrington stared fixedly at the empty fireplace, numb, it seemed, to the world. Katherine grew slightly alarmed. Her husband was a notorious stoic, but this was something different. She knelt before him, taking and pulling apart the fist that had formed on the chair's arm. "Edward, speak to me. What has happened?"

Mr. Norrington blinked, seemed to acknowledge finally that he wasn't alone. As his brown eyes met his wife's green ones, his expression softened considerably. His free hand reached into his jacket and pulled out the parchment. He held it out limply.

"He's resigned. James has resigned his commission."

Katherine's pretty brow knitted in perplexity as she took the sheet of paper. Eliza, eyes wide in shock, hovered over her mother's shoulder to read along with her. Katherine flinched, emitting a small gasp that she only missed smothering with one hand. That hand went to her throat as if to pull away the stifling puzzlement clutching at it. "But…why ever would he-?"

The question went unanswered. Mr. Norrington steepled his fingers and continued to stare into the sooty black of the cold fireplace. He knew why.

**...**

News of the sinking of the _Dauntless_ appeared in the Gazette the day after its report ended up on his desk. At that point, word of it had long since circulated through the naval community. Everywhere he went, Admiral Norrington seemed to find people shooting furtive, pitying glances at him, whispering behind their hands.

_How dreadful such news must be… Oh, yes. To even share the same name as the man who sunk the Dauntless… And he'd shown such promise…_

The leather case holding the report included the ship's log. He scoured the documents for hours. He never could quite say what it was he searched for, but something told him he'd know it when he found it. There had to be something.

James wasn't a fool.

When he did find it, Norrington found it hard to believe he had missed it in the first place. It was on the second time through the logs he found something. The line came at the end of the entry. Added as if as an afterthought. Like he'd forgotten to put it in the beginning.

_Delayed one day by preparations._

If it had been anyone else, Norrington would have dismissed the line. But this was his son, and the one child of four who had taken to the sea. The streak of ocean blue in the veins of the Norringtons ran through one son per generation. It was nigh legend at this point. Edward had been the one to get it among his brothers, and it now ran through James. Norrington knew inherently how his son's mind worked, just as his father before him knew how his worked.

The delay of one day would have been maddening. If anything, it should have been the first thing he mentioned, as it should have been on the forefront of his mind. Should have been.

As it turned out, that one day would have made all the difference. If they hadn't caught Sparrow before the hurricane, they would have at least made it through the hurricane before it hit its pinnacle.

A whole day of preparations. The case would be closed, but for the fact that Edward knew how James ran his fleet.

It never took him more than some meager hours to muster a ship.

**...**

James Norrington disappeared for some time after that. The family had enjoyed letters with at least some regularity prior to the incident. Now there was nothing.

Word filtered through occasionally of somebody having seen him for a brief moment. One had him sailing as a privateer for the Spanish, the only navy willing to take such a disastrous captain. Another said he was working in the governor's office. One sailor even said he saw him in a pub on Tortuga, drowning himself in rum.

Edward didn't know what to believe, and they despaired of ever hearing anything ever again.

In time, the gossip died down. Edward Villiers died. Cary's rebellion in the Carolinas took a couple headlines.

Still no solid word of or from James Norrington.

Thomas Newcomen built the first piston-operated steam engine. The Spanish Succession ended with the Treaty of Utrecht.

Then a letter came. And it was written in a familiar, steady and authoritarian hand. James apologized for the long period of time that had lapsed, but took no more than a few lines to say so. What came after was a brief explanation of what happened to him after resigning. Then he glossed over a large chunk of time with the vague phrase, "Following some other events I will leave out due to their most dubious and troublesome nature…" James' letters were only ever descriptive when being used to communicate ships or battles, so it wasn't anything particularly concerning.

However, Edward found himself sitting suddenly at the line saying James was now an admiral for the East India Trading Company.

The clerk at the Company office on James' Square confirmed it; the records, and signed by no other than Cutler Beckett himself, had only reached the office two days before James' letter found its way to Edward's hands.

He stepped inside that afternoon, coughing against the December cold threatening to suck the warmth from his very bones and shaking snow from his overcoat. Katherine materialized behind him to help with his coat.

She was quiet, but expectant, catching his hands with hers when he turned to go down the hallway. "Edward, is it true?"

Edward found her eyes locked with his, tilted downwards as they always were due to him being some inches shorter. In spite of the trepidation he felt at knowing so little about the situation, he caught himself smiling slightly as he replied. "It's true. It's all true."

Delight lifted the shadow from Katherine's eyes, and she threw her arms around him in an embrace. And then she was away to go tell Eliza. Edward was left smiling somewhat in the foyer. He allowed pride to fill his chest.

The niggling premonition in the back of his mind slumbered.

**...**

Life moved on.

A suitor found his way to Eliza's fickle and capricious little heart, and the youngest Norrington moved out of the house into the world in March. For Edward and Katherine, no other event of the first five months that year trumped the marriage of their youngest daughter.

The house grew unearthly quiet after that. There was no more piano or flute music playing at random times during the day; Eliza deigned to learn as many musical instruments as possible.

But it was home, and the Norringtons could sit back and be content knowing their brood of children were off in the world forging their way through life.

Eliza married.

The younger son Alexander in the army.

Margaret, the older daughter, married.

And James an admiral.

Sunlight poured into Edward's office, making the Spartan work place somewhat stuffy but comfortable. Dust motes drifted in and out of the light beams and settled on the desk or windowsill or bookshelf. Some papers sat in a neat stack on the corner of his desk next to the black feather quill and ivory inkwell.

All of this failed to register with the man sitting behind the desk.

A list of preparations for his retirement lay forgotten under his elbow. The paper in his hands was slowly being crushed from both sides by his hands forming sudden fists. The words on the paper were small and few, but had long since faded out of his vision. A looping indifferent signature finished off the trifling sentences, but he had no eyes for the identity of the writer. It was no one he knew.

The letter was one of condolence. It had East India Trading Company letterhead.

It marked the end.

It told him that his son was dead.


	2. Part II

**Part II: A Fortiori**

Those on duty in the office of the Admiralty recall Edward Norrington leaving suddenly about midday. The door to his office slammed open, but he was gone like a shadow before anyone could call out. He frightened one of the aid de camps as he walked out. The young man said it was as if he had stared eye to eye with Mephistopheles himself, there was such fury in his gaze.

Fortunately for the aid de camp, it would be the hapless clerk at the East India Company office who would bear the brunt of Norrington's anger. The admiral stormed into the front room, shoved his way through a trio of sailors, and slapped the letter on the front desk. He did not yell, but instead, spoke with a quiet intensity.

"Either find me the bloody death certificate or give me the man who signed this letter."

The clerk, mute but with eyes wide, picked up the letter to read it. "L-Let me just-" The sentence never made its way to completion before the man scurried away. Norrington straightened, regaining some composure. He fought to maintain the fire in his chest so as to avoid the vacuum struggling to engulf everything else.

As he waited, a commotion erupted from one of the rooms in the back. Shouting ensued, one voice above the others trying to quell it.

"Cutler Beckett was a mad man, fortunately now a _dead _one, and I refuse to serve under a company that allows such overzealous obsession into its upper echelons…" Some murmuring. "I don't care if his father was the Duke of York! He wasted Company resources to chase after some supernatural poppycock, which came to fruition only for a short time, before it all went back to piracy! And moreover, a great – "

The tirade ceased suddenly. After a beat of silence, a low, unintelligible voice spoke. After that, Norrington could hear no more. But Cutler Beckett was dead. More mist and fog. Norrington wondered if his death and James's were mere coincidence.

Gradually, the sound of footsteps brought, not the clerk as he had hoped, but a very impassive and sober-looking man from the depths of the building. He was a Company man, though his uniform and person had seen much better days.

Wear and tear from days at sea had the brocade and blue of his uniform tattered and stained. Most of it was quite rumpled, though he could tell the man was a lieutenant. The man glanced up at Norrington, having felt the admiral's eyes on him. The lieutenant paused, taking note of Norrington's rank.

"Do forgive my appearance, sir," he said, and began to continue, but his eyes narrowed and a look of recognition crossed them. "Begging your pardon, sir, but I believe I know you."

Norrington's eyebrows rose slightly. "Do you? I fear I we are not acquainted." The lieutenant still spoke.

"Sir, would you be Admiral Norrington?" The lieutenant flinched slightly. "Sir Edward Norringotn, I mean, sir."

Norrington narrowed his eyes. Curious. "I am he. Who addresses me?"

The lieutenant bowed stiffly. "Lieutenant Theodore Groves, sir." He cast a blazing glance over his shoulder down the hallway he had emerged from. "Or rather, former Lieutenant."

Groves. The name was familiar. James had mentioned such a name on occasion as one of his lieutenants in the Caribbean.

"Groves, you say." Norrington stepped forward to within arm's reach of the younger man. "Would you have served under James Norrington in the Caribbean?"

A brief look of pain or regret tightened Groves's mouth. "I did." He extended a hand. "It is an honor to have met you, sir. The Commodore has…spoke of you very highly."

Norrington took Groves hand and shook it. His voice was soft. "Thank you, Groves."

"He was a great man, your son."

"So he is dead, then." It was a statement.

"He is."

"Begging your lordship's pardon…"

The two men turned to find the clerk had returned, bearing nothing. The man's demeanor changed suddenly. Stiff. "I am afraid, sir, that I could find no records of either the man who wrote this letter or of a James Norrington at all. You must be mistaken, sir."

Norrington took two steps toward the clerk. The man flinched. "I was in this office not five months ago inquiring about the same man."

The clerk was silent for a beat. "You must be mistaken, sir," he repeated. Then he turned on one heel and went back down the hallway. Norrington watched him go. One hand, the one holding the letter, clenched. The crumple of paper was loud and several people turned to glance at him.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and Groves's voice cut through the fog of anger slowly clouding his mind. "Sir, it will be of no use." His tone was one of derision. "When they want to hide something, Company men are some of the most capable in the world. Consider India. It's a wonder they haven't monopolized the West Indies yet…"

"Groves, you wear a Company uniform. Explain that to me." Norrington turned to face Groves. The man deflated slightly.

"Sir, the most I care to speak of is that I made a mistake." He cast another scathing glance at the office around them. "It may comfort you to know that I am no longer in its employ."

"You served in the Caribbean. At the same time as James."

"I – " Groves stopped, eyes flying to a tiny source of motion at the head of the hallway. Norrington followed his gaze. A man in black stood there, glowering warningly from a doorway. One hand was tucked into his coat.

The expression on Groves's face as he returned to look at the admiral was one of pain and regret. His voice shook now when he spoke and he swallowed nervously more than once. "I'm afraid, sir, I can't tell you anything." He stepped backwards out of Norrington's reach. "I'm sorry, sir."

He made for the exit and was gone.

**...**

By the time he reached home, his anger had burned itself out, leaving a dull pain behind his eyes and a rock in his gut. Something in the depths of his mind tried hoping that it was all just a misunderstanding, that somebody somewhere had made a mistake. But that shred of hope fluttered limply like a dying bird under the crushing weight of depression.

Katherine found him sitting up against the front door in the foyer, head in his hands. She fainted outright at the news.

As he was still an admiral yet, Edward returned to the office the next day wearing a black armband. He moved around in something of a quiet shock. His son was dead. He knew next to nothing other than that fact and was left with questions – questions nobody could answer. A day passed by in a blur of tears and condolences.

Then, there was a visitor.

He arrived during dinner and apologized profusely for interrupting. The man was tall and lanky and all too familiar to the Norrington family – Horatio Godfrey the Third, James's closest friend. He immediately inquired about James. Instead of answering, the Norringtons invited him in to eat. There was something to be shared that was better received after a good meal.

Horatio ate fast and hungrily, as he'd traveled to London straight from his office in Manchester that morning. The angular man was a lawyer, and a very good one at that; his tongue had been plated in silver since birth.

As the lawyer finished, he spoke. "Now, Admiral, Mrs. Norrington, I'm here on a very important matter. I've come to find out about James, as the last letter I received from him was most troubling in nature, and I do not know my friend to be so cavalier about certain things." He spread his hands on the table. "I have with some documents from him, but I will wait to produce them…once you've told me the news you have."

Edward leaned back from his half-eaten meal, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair. He and Katherine shared a brief glance. "Horatio… James is…dead."

Horatio covered his mouth with one hand and stared down at his plate. Silence reigned for a long time until he recovered enough to speak. "Well…I suppose, then, that explains why he sent me these."

From beneath his chair he produced a leather document case. He gazed at the case sadly. "I had hoped against hope that it was all pre-action jitters, but doubt began to creep in when I saw you in mourning."

"What did he send?"

Katherine's soft question brought Horatio's amber eyes up to look at them. "Several things, in fact, for each of you, and his brother and sisters." He paused. "Some other things of a legal nature, as well, that need to be shared with all of you." The second pause was longer. "His will."

The remaining Norrington children were gathered within the next week. During that week, a plan began formulating in his mind. He spoke of it to no one, because no one would agree with it.

Horatio stood before the fireplace in the library, holding the various documents in his thin hands. He cut a Shakespearean figure against the crackling of the fire, brooding and sad. Katherine sat in Edward's great chair. Edward himself stood behind her, one hand on her shoulder. She rested her cheek against it.

The oldest, Margaret, sat on a small stool next to her parents. The usually outspoken and confident woman was stiff and formal, grief aging her heart-shaped face. Like James, she was tall and retained a willowy shape most women envied, particularly those with three children.

Eliza, her sister, stood slightly behind her. Her curly auburn hair made a fiery contrast with the black of her mourning dress. Normally a proponent of bright colors, her petite frame seemed to be engulfed by the dark dress.

Alexander, born after James, took up a mahogany chair next to the fire. He leaned forward on his elbow, chin resting in his hand, and stared into the fire impassively. The black armband looked like a ring of blood around his upper arm against the scarlet of his uniform.

For all his fame and high paying commission, James ended up having very few worldly possessions. Particularly considering his state of employment following his resignation. He had even apologized in his will about being unable to give much of anything.

His home in the Caribbean had been sold, along with the pianoforte he enjoyed playing in the spare free time he would get. There were some things he'd had shipped back to England, like a book and chart collection, some old pistols of foreign and varying make, a painting of the Battle of Vienna, several pirate sabers belonging to one or two notable criminals, and some other souvenirs.

By the will, the books would stay with Margaret and her husband William, a merchant of repute, for the education of their three boys. The pistols went to Alexander. He had used several of them himself and swore upon their reliability. He gave Eliza the painting, knowing her passion for the arts, along with a book about Rembrant somebody had given him as a Christmas present. To Edward went the collection of sabers which represented each of his major conquests in the crusade to rid the waters of the Caribbean of pirates and ensure the protection of the populace, as was his job. He apologized that the swords of Jack Sparrow or Hector Barbossa were not counted among them. Katherine received a set of gold Spanish-made earrings he'd always meant to send as a Christmas present, but never did, to his lasting regret.

And for Horatio, knowing his penchant for the worlds of old and objects of foreign make, several slightly expensive but sentimental pieces James had come across in his journeys through the Caribbean and other exotic places, to include some Aztec pottery and a ball of lead he had dug out of his own leg during his first battle at sea.

To conlude, James surmised that he never actually used the money he earned, save for some petty luxuries here and there, but he distributed his savings liberally throughout the family. After the sale of his home, piano, and horse, there was enough for each surviving family member to have two hundred pounds per year for the next three years.

After finishing, Horatio handed out envelopes to each Norrington. "Jim gave me specific instructions to the deliver these by hand and that you should read them alone." He held aloft his own letter before securely tucking it into the breast pocket of his jacket. "I have one myself."

Reading his name on top of the envelope, Edward turned the paper over in his hands. These, the letters, the will, everything, were sent when he was still alive. It was like receiving a letter from beyond the grave. Edward's eyes were still on the envelope when Eliza spoke.

"I understand it is tradition to bury sailors at sea when they die, but given his station…would they have…" She struggled for an appropriate word. "…brought him back to be buried? Here. At home."

The lawyer raised his hands helplessly. "I don't know the Company well enough to guess."

Edward's expression hardened, and he squeezed his eyes shut in anger. "The bastards told me he didn't even exist in their records." The strain in his voice brought Katherine's gaze up to him. She squeezed his hand on her shoulder. "_They wouldn't have brought him home_."

The scoot of wooden feet on the rug made those assembled jump. Margaret was on her feet suddenly, letter crumpled and forgotten in her hand. "I will not have the fate of my brother left to oblivion!" She stepped earnestly over to Horatio and took up his hands in hers. "Horatio, you're a lawyer. There must be something you can do! Fraud, libel…I mean…something."

"Margaret…"

"They're men! They're not infallible! They are not gods!"

Horatio moved to speak, but Edward's coarse tenor interrupted. "Cutler Beckett did something in the Caribbean that the Company is trying to cover up, trying to make up for. I doubt it was something they even knew completely about."

He had moved away from the chair to stand before the fireplace. His hands were clasped in the small of his back, and the firelight danced in the reflection of the spectacles balanced on the end of his nose. "Given their propensity to appear infallible, as impossible a feat as that is, even if we brought a case against them…I very much doubt any headway could be made." He glanced up at Horatio. The two men locked eyes for a brief second. "Even for a lawyer as good as Mr. Godfrey." Back to the fire. "And given the people of influence around Cutler Beckett, the man's father most notable among them…They would ruin him."

Margaret released a shaky breath. Horatio, never one for propriety, pulled her into an embrace. He may have been James's best friend, but they had all grown up together.

"So that's it then." Alexander stood up from his chair with an air of finality.

"No."

Motion in the room ceased to listen. Edward maintained a level gaze at the fire, not sure what the reaction may be by those assembled, but too far gone at that point to turn back.

"I'm going to find out the truth. Even if it takes me across the entire ocean."


	3. Part III

**Part III: Ex Animo**

Edward intended to travel to the Caribbean.

At first, there was silence. Then, almost simultaneously, Alexander and Horatio said, "I'll go with you." Immediately, Edward moved to dissent, but the two men were suddenly nose to nose, or as nose to nose as possible, considering Horatio's lankiness put him about four inches taller than the stockier Alexander.

"What gives you the right?"

"He may not have been my brother, but he was my best friend. I at least owe him the effort!"

"He bloody well _was _my brother! What could you do? Write them a strongly worded letter? I can at least turn a _blade_!"

Had they been elsewhere instead of at the reading of a will, things might have come to blows.

"_Enough_."

Katherine's sharp command cut over the rising argument. She had risen from her seat and stood in a pale fury before it. Mrs. Norrington had only ever on rare occasion raised her voice above a speaking level. Edward usually could yell enough for the both of them when the situation needed it, but Katherine possessed a calm assertiveness that proved just as effective.

"I will not have your fighting disgrace such an occasion. I will not." She held James's letter with both hands. "Now, you both have a livelihood to maintain, as the law and soldiers do not muster themselves. A trip to the Caribbean would do little good for either of you or the offices you have entered."

Edward had turned away from the fire initially to step between Horatio and Alexander, but paused when Katherine intervened. Their eyes met now. A frustrated helplessness was there in her gaze; it struck him in the chest like a knife. She glanced down at the letter in her hands. "Do what you must, Edward. Now, I am going to retire, as it is late, and I am weary. Good night."

With that, Katherine left the room.

Alexander, biting his bottom lip, looked up at Horatio. "Horatio, I apologize," he said quietly.

The tall lawyer looked back and extended a hand. "Think nothing of it, Alex. I imagine we're all under a bit of stress at the moment."

"Indeed." The two men shook hands.

Margaret made a noise of exasperation and attempted to pull the wrinkles she had made out of the letter. "I believe I shall retire, as well. I have some reading to do."

"As do I," Eliza added. The sisters left the room together, leaving Horatio, Edward, and Alexander alone.

Silence reigned. Horatio fell into the armchair next to the fireplace, a hand to his forehead. Edward leaned against the fireplace, suddenly weary. Alexander put his thumb under the fold of the letter to open it, but paused. "I'm curious."

Edward and Horatio looked up at him from their respective resting places. Edward suddenly found his son staring directly at him, something of a challenging expression creating the appearance that Alex was made of stone.

For the second son, standing in his brother's shadow had always been a bit of a sore point. It was James's rapidly advancing career that people asked about and not his own. Above all, they were brothers and one would always die for the other, but as they grew older and farther apart, jealousy tarnished things. Norringtons were famous for their naval history; that one son would run off to join the army was an odd thing.

"If it was me at the bottom of the ocean, or more appropriately, lying alone in some bloody field, would you venture out to discover what happened?"

The challenge faded. Genuine concern took years from Alexander's visage. Again, Edward was struck through the heart. There wasn't a soul in London who would knock Edward Norrington's ability as a father – success reigned in the household. However, there were things he wished he had done differently. One of those things was how he interacted with his children.

Too many times career had come first. Too many times the man he was on the quarterdeck came home instead of the man his family needed – distant, stoic, authoritarian. Edward Norrington had never been known as 'affectionate.' And it was always taken for granted that his sons and daughters knew he loved them.

"Alexander…" He stepped forward to put his hands on Alexander's shoulders. He spoke slow and deliberately.

"I would go to the ends of the Earth."

**...**

Edward swept his hat off as he stepped inside, tucking it under one arm as he continued down the hallway. The noise of adolescent activity echoed down the hall – small voices, the occasional thud; he followed it. Gradually, the dulcet tones of his wife became distinguishable over the sounds.

They were in the nursery. In one corner, Alexander sat pushing some metal toy soldiers around on the rug, occasionally reaching over to a tiny wooden sailing ship and mocking the sound of a broadside. Beneath the window, Katherine was on her knees helping the tiny Eliza take a few shaky first steps. In the white rocking chair next to her, Margaret tugged on one brown ringlet as she talked about a recent infraction with a local girl at a tea party.

The newly promoted captain paused in the doorway, leaning against the frame. He watched the goings on with a pleasant expression on his face, not wanting to be a disturbance. It didn't last long, though. Margaret's eyes snapped up suddenly to the blue and gold standing in the door and then promptly lit up. "Daddy!" she cried, and hopped off the chair to run over, following swiftly by Alexander.

Katherine looked up as well just as Edward was scooping his daughter up into his arms and Alexander attached himself to his leg. "You're by a bit early, Edward," Katherine said, remaining where she was; Eliza was on the cusp of being able to balance by herself.

Edward didn't answer at first. Instead, he made for where Katherine kneeled, gait a little lopsided as he compensated for the additional weight of Alex on his right leg. He leaned over to give her a kiss. "There's an event in town. Where's James?"

"He's practicing right now, but you may take him," she replied, eyes back on their small daughter.

"Surprising. I half expected the Godfrey boy to be visiting, but thank you for your permission, my lady," he said with an ironic smirk.

"Dad, can't I go, too?" Margaret pleaded from beneath Edward's commandeered hat.

"Yes, Dad, can't we go?" Alexander chimed in.

Edward set Margaret back down. "You may not." He bent to dislodge Alexander from his ankle. "It is not the kind of event that young ladies and toddlers may attend."

"But James always gets to go," the girl pouted, frowning and crossing her arms. Edward straightened after setting Alexander next to his sister and retrieved his hat from Margaret's head.

"He does not. You and you alone went with me to go visit Commodore Stevens. I recall you very much enjoyed having tea with Mrs. Stevens and their daughters." If anything, this deepened Margaret's scowl due it being very true. A compulsive time checker, Edward pulled out his pocket watch, a characteristically small but amused smile on his face.

"You'll take us next time, Papa?" Alexander asked, holding his hands behind his back and turning back and forth.

"Promise," Edward replied. "Now be good for your mother." He turned then to Katherine as he made for the door. "Enjoy the rest of your day, darling. We'll return in a few hours." Katherine smiled in his direction as he left.

The sound of steady music had been something Edward failed to notice upon entering the house. Now he could hear it as he stepped down the hallway. It stopped abruptly, though, when he stepped into the receiving room.

There had been some kerfuffle between Edward and Katherine about education, specifically for James. Early on Edward had been on the watch to see if the boy was to be a lubber or a sailor. When James made a spirited but failed attempt to sail in a wooden bucket across the pond at his grandfather's summer home, his fate was apparent and so, Edward began including him whenever he could in naval affairs – navigation, repairs, anything.

But Katherine, being the daughter of a composer and academic, wanted him to at least learn some manner of instrument; it was her goal for each of their offspring. Edward, having known only nautical ventures and subjects, was baffled by this. He'd never learned how to play the piano, and he had done just fine so far. There was no unyielding need to have the ability; why bother?

Katherine wouldn't have it. So they settled on an impasse – James would do both.

Having inherited his father's time watching habits, the first thing out of the boy's mouth was, "You're home early, Dad." It had happened enough for James to know that meant he'd be going on outing with his father, usually to see the big sailing ship he now commanded. It was always terribly exciting.

"Good afternoon to you as well, son," Edward replied smoothly. A beat of silence.

"Good afternoon, sir."

More silence. Some inexplicable manner of father-son communication occurred during those few seconds of quiet. Edward regarded the boy behind the piano coolly, eyebrows slightly raised. James gazed back at the man in the doorway, expression neutral but eyes earnest and expectant.

Edward broke the connection by waving a hand to beckon the boy over. James practically leapt away from the piano bench and hurried over. "Now," Edward began, kneeling before his son to straighten the lapels on his small jacket, "you know our feelings towards piracy."

"Aye, sir."

"You also understand the punishment?"

"Death, sir."

"Death proper, indeed." He finished, straightened, and looked James over – everything was satisfactorily in order. "Come along, then."

James eagerly followed after his father as they left the house, jumping the last two steps. He managed to stick the landing with only a slight stumble, better than yesterday's scraped knee and hands. "Dad, are we going to see a pirate?" he asked after walking several blocks in silence.

"We are," Edward confirmed, checking once more his watch.

"A dead one?" the boy continued, having to skip a couple steps to keep up with his father's quick stride.

"Not at first, no. But he will be before long."

A couple beats passed before James spoke again. "We're going to see a hanging, then." Edward glanced down at his son.

"That we are."

By the time they reached Tyburn, masses of people covered the square. Edward found them a suitable vantage point from the top of one of the spectator stands. From the top of the stands, the gathered heads formed a moving, bobbing carpet. The gallows was in the very middle of the road, a veritable pointed finger of warning for travelers and citizens alike.

To the side of the structure stood three individuals. A warden came behind them and shouted something they couldn't hear from their place amongst the people. A loose cheer sounded as the first of the criminals shuffled up the stairs.

"Is that him?"

Edward squinted. Odds Bodkins, his eyesight was bad. The condemned man was a burly sort with greasy black hair. He could see no telltale earring, but there was a curling tattoo over one large arm – some manner of fire-breathing serpent.

"That's him."

They watched as the caller began reading out the charges, the foremost among them being piracy. A number of other nefarious deeds followed.

All the while, the pirate scowled frightfully at the crowd, scaring one lady near the gallows.

Edward sneered slightly. "These are the men we find and punish, James. They are lawless, despicable creatures whose only concern is their personal wellbeing."

The boy was quiet, eyes wide as he watched the hangman put the noose over the pirate's head. He'd heard this lecture more than once. He'd never seen a hanging before, though.

"They take from honest men. Should you become a member of his Majesty's Royal Navy, I hope you would make it your duty to clean the seas of them and make sure every pirate gets what he deserves."

The hangman stepped away, and the caller ceased calling. Another ragged cheer rolled from the crowd when the man put his hand on a wooden lever off to the side.

James inhaled sharply. The pirate bared his teeth and started to shout something.

The hangman pulled the lever.

"A short drop and a sudden stop."

**...**

Failure.

Absolute failure.

His reflection on the water stared dolefully back at him, sunburned, grimy, and discouraged. Behind him, the sun lit up the sky in the ruddy splendor of dusk falling, turning the green blue surface of the ocean an equally vibrant and sparkling orange.

Edward's journey took him straight to Port Royal, where it all started. After several days of talking to people, the only thing he'd found was that everybody he could ever hope to gain information of any importance from was dead or missing.

Weatherby Swann.

His daughter Elizabeth.

Some blacksmith named Turner.

A number of other various names of people he had never heard of.

And all the people he talked to could only tell him what he already knew.

All dead or likely dead. And if the two gentlemen that he had seen multiple times in the past couple days were of any indication, he was being followed to boot. Probably some Trading Company goons set on his tale after word of his appearance filtered through their nets. That was a curious thing. He'd gone as low key as possible – just some brown traveling clothes, a worn tricorn, and no wig of station. The only other indications of his identity were the spectacles on the end of his nose and the scar on his arm.

And it's not like there was anybody left in the Caribbean that would know the significance of those characteristics.

He heaved a sigh, took a glance at the horizon, and hauled himself to his feet with a grunt. There had to be someone. There had to be _someone_.

But the dead weight of consistent failure had his spirits down at his feet like some dread ball and chain that he would drag around forever. Perhaps he'd never find out, and the only thing that would remain of his son's life and death would be a marble headstone in the family plot in Portsmouth.

Pulling his glasses off, he pinched the bridge of his nose and called to mind a very useful proverb his mother had always swore upon.

"And not only that, but we also glory in tribulations, knowing that tribulation produces perseverance; and perseverance, character; and character, hope."

With those final words to the tiny waves lapping up against the pier, Edward replaced his glasses, set his mouth in a grim line, and turned to head back into town.


	4. Part IV

**Part IV: Pactum Serva**

The meager room Edward had rented out for his stay in Port Royal would remain empty that night.

A sign for a pub called the Glorious Salvo caught Edward's eye on his way back to the inn. He was by no means a habitual drinker; the occasional tumbler of whiskey or wine with dinner was enough to suffice. But tonight, he needed something to replace the fire in his chest, even if it was just a temporary substitute for his own fervor.

He talked to no one but the bartender and a promiscuous young woman whom he scared away with a scowl and something about how he'd sooner sleep in the gutter than with some tart off the streets.

That gained him a slap to the face, but after that, he was left mostly to himself.

The sun had been down for an hour or so before he headed towards the inn, a touch light headed. Maybe the third pint had been a bit much.

Consequently, he was unaware of the two characters that had followed him out of the Glorious Salvo and was unaware for most of the walk back. At one point, he stopped at an intersection, unable to quite recall which street it was he needed to go down.

He reached into a pocket to pull out a scrap of paper upon which a crude map was scribbled. Meandering over to a nearby street lamp, he oriented himself.

Though he was about as short sighted as a bat at noon in the middle of the Sahara Desert, Edward could still hear quite well. The soft scrape of metal on a scabbard snatched his attention away from the map. He looked up sharply from the map, trying to scour the darkness looming just outside the lamp light.

The only sounds that came back to him were that of the sea breeze and a dog barking some streets over. Nothing that sounded like a weapon being drawn, but the hairs standing up on the back of his neck and the prickling across his scalp told him otherwise.

Gradually, the dog quieted down, leaving only the thudding of his pulse in his ears. With one last glance around him, Edward looked back down at the map for the name of the street he needed.

He wasn't sure if somebody had called out or if a foot knocked something over in the darkness, but something brought his head back up to his surroundings to find a figure coming at him with a sword raised to strike.

The hilt of the weapon came whistling towards his head just as Edward dove down and into the assailant. A hundred and forty pounds of wiry admiral barreled into the man's knees; to the attacker's credit, he didn't cry out in spite of Edward feeling the man's legs crumple.

God's boons, he hadn't fought hand to hand with anyone since he punched out George Logan at a naval function eight years ago. Even so, he had gained the upper hand by surprise and was able to get to the point where he could punch the man in the nose.

He had his fist raised for the second strike when something hard connected with the side of his head. He toppled sideways off the first attacker and hit the cobblestones with the world spinning. His glasses flew off his nose, effectively rendering the entire scene a veritable blur; in the remote part of his mind not concerned with avoiding getting killed, he was glad Katherine made him attach the blasted things to his waistcoat with a little chain. She knew his propensity to set things down and forget where he put them.

It might have been the alcohol, but he was somehow able to stagger to his feet, fists up defensively and pointed in the direction of the man-shaped blurs under the street lamp. One advanced on him with something smaller than a sword in one hand. Having been in the fighting business for some time, he was able to recognize the shape as a gun in spite of being half blind.

A blur of movement indicated the man was raising the gun, and Edward felt his blood run cold.

But tonight would not be his night.

A third shape appeared out of the darkness, hefting a heavy looking something and swinging it at the fellow with the gun.

With one assailant down and the other trying to get to his feet, Edward rushed in to do…something, he wasn't sure what, but the rescuer ran at him instead, shouting to go the other way. It was a woman's voice – odd – but he skidded to a halt to turn around. They bounced off of each other and wheeled around to flee.

The woman was much younger than he and sprinted ahead into the dark of an alley.

The sharp report of gun fire sounded over his shoulder and a corresponding streak of pain slashed over his upper arm just as he reached the alley. Behind him, one of the attackers must have recovered the pistol. The shot hit him just as he ran straight into some manner of crate, but the adrenaline fueling his limbs somehow enabled him to scramble around and stay on his feet.

They fled into the night.

…

Edward's rescuer was indeed a young woman. She stood waiting on the corner ahead of him as he finally caught up, breathing heavily. He leaned over, hands on his knees. "Thank you, miss. I am entirely in your debt," he managed between gasps.

"You're welcome," she replied.

He straightened, wiping one hand across his brow while the other groped for his glasses. With the small spectacles in place one more, he could finally get a better look at the woman.

She was more or less dressed like an average working girl, early twenties at best. Some of her blond hair had fallen in wavy strands from her bun. Brown eyes. A bit willowy. Her smile was pleasant, so he attempted to return it but managed a wince instead.

"Oh, you've been hurt," she said, smile fading as she noticed the red beginning to stain his jacket sleeve.

He looked at the injury, putting a hand to stem the flow. "Well, look at that." There was a fair sized goose egg beginning to form near his temple, as well.

She reached out to him. "Here. Let me help. I have some supplies at home."

While it was odd for Edward to be accepting help from a woman who had been out roaming around at night and didn't even balk at striking a man with a gun, he wasn't about to turn down a helping hand.

It was a few minute's walk to a small apartment above a bakery. The woman led him up some creaky stairs at the side of the building. They entered what looked to be a two-room abode. The dark shape of a table took up most of this one; he imagined something similar to a bedroom was next door. Light from a candle entered the dark room as the woman shut the door, and a second woman stuck her head into the room. She was somewhat shorter and rounder than the first.

"Miss Elizabeth?" she queried in a hushed tone, eyes on the stranger that had entered.

"Here, Estrella," the young woman replied, crossing the room swiftly to enter the adjoining room. "Just a minute."

The other woman, Estrella, waited in the door, looking suspiciously at Edward. Edward looked right back, feeling the scrutiny from his toes to his eyebrows. Eventually, Elizabeth returned to the room with another candle. She smiled at the two of them. "It's all right, dear. There was an altercation, and he's been hurt."

Estrella shot one final look of judgment towards Edward, who shuffled awkwardly next to the table. "Very well. Let him make a move, though, and I'll…"

He didn't hear the rest of the threat as Elizabeth had turned Estrella around and shooed her back into the other room. She shut the door before speaking. "A close friend of mine," she explained with an apologetic wince. "After I found myself alone, she offered to let me stay with her." She pointed to a seat at the table before walking over to a cabinet in the corner of the room. "If you will."

Edward sat down. The after effects of adrenaline had left him a bit shaky and hadn't helped at all with the alcohol buzz that still made him feel light headed. "She seems very…protective," he said, pulling a bit at his sleeve to better see the injury.

"She is, but don't mind her. Her bark is worse than her bite, I assure you," came the muffled reply from inside the cabinet. Elizabeth reemerged with a pitcher of water and some shreds of cloth. Her eyes were on his arm. "You'll have to remove your jacket."

He did so, wincing when the fabric pulled at the dried blood. A bullet score, indeed. The slash was a few inches long and about as wide as a pistol ball. Nothing too serious than what he'd seen or experienced before, but he had been sailing a desk for some years since his promotion. Luckily, it was low enough on his bicep for his sleeve to roll up past.

Elizabeth pulled a chair over closer to him and dipped one of the cloths into the pitcher. She peered curiously at the odd scars running up his arm. "What happened?" she asked. Edward glanced down at them.

"Oh. I got caught up in some rigging when I was very much younger and took a bad fall. Just about de-gloved myself, if you will."

Elizabeth grimaced. "That sounds awful."

"It certainly wasn't very pleasant, but, live and learn."

She nodded in acquiescence and proceeded to clean the cut. Edward winced. "So you know my name," she stated, not looking up. "May I know yours?"

He hesitated a moment. Not exactly an expert at being discrete, he knew his own carelessness had probably brought on the ambush in the first place. But, she didn't seem malicious. And even though it still stung, her touch was gentle.

"Edward Norrington," he replied, leaning forward slightly to rest his other elbow on the table. Her careful ministrations paused for a second before continuing.

"What brings you to Port Royal, Mr. Norrington? From your sunburn and manner, you aren't exactly of Caribbean stock." She glanced up at him. "With all due respect, of course."

Edward regarded her for a moment, one eyebrow arched. "Of course," he said after a beat. Her question, though, took some of the confidence out of his posture and he deflated slightly. "My son…died not long ago, and Port Royal was the last place he lived. I'm here to close some of his affairs."

She stopped completely at this point and stared up at him. Her expression struck him as odd, a mix between slight shock and maybe…dread? "What was his name?" she murmured.

Elizabeth. James spoke of an Elizabeth. The one who had turned down a commodore for a blacksmith. But he was under the impression that that particular Elizabeth was the daughter of the governor, not an average working class girl.

"James. His name was James." Her hands fell slowly away from him. He was half afraid to ask the question in the forefront of his mind. "Did you know him?"

"I did."

"Elizabeth Swann." He turned in his chair to face her, expression earnest and pleading as he took her hands. "Miss Swann, please, you're the only person left alive in the Caribbean who can help me. Nobody can or will tell me what happened. Please!"

Elizabeth's visage grew very pained, and she looked away for a minute before being able to speak. "Mr. Norrington…I don't know how to say this."

"Say what? What do you know?"

"More than I would ever care to, but…" Instead of lying limp in his grasp, her hands returned the pressure. "I don't think you would believe me."

"Child, I'm at the end of my rope. My son is dead, and there isn't a soul, living or dead, who has been able to tell me how it happened. He was in the employ of the East India Company at the time, an admiral, and do you want to know what the Company told me when I inquired about the circumstances?"

She looked mutely back at him, eyes wide.

"They lied to me. They told me he didn't even exist in their records when I had seen with my own eyes the signature of Cutler Beckett on his commission." Edward felt a vacuum trying to close over his throat and something struggling to engulf the heart in his chest. "They forced another man into silence with threats of violence. I'm willing to bet my life that the two men who accosted me there in the street were Company men, ordered to do the same." Speaking was almost getting to be difficult. He managed a deep breath before continuing. His voice was much quieter. "At this point, you could tell me anything and it would be better than nothing at all."

Elizabeth released his hands and sat back in her chair, looking away for a moment as if to find an appropriate place to start.

"I know bare facts, miss," Edward offered. "But not much more than that. Start after he resigned his commission."

Their eyes met, and after a moment, Elizabeth took a steadying breath. Then she spoke. She continued binding his wound as she did; it seemed to help.

The story spilled out event by event, mostly in accordance with Edward already knew.

As it turned out, his hunch about the one-day delay that ultimately sunk the _Dauntless _was right – James had delayed a day on purpose in order to save the man Elizabeth loved and the one who had saved her life.

Also, Elizabeth had been right.

Cutler Beckett, the _Flying Dutchmen_, Davy Jones, a Kraken, Davy Jones's Locker, Pirate Lords…

He didn't believe it.

As Elizabeth neared the end of the tale, a mix of emotion flashed across her face. "I thought he was dead. Jones's crew was merciless; they would have killed him once they caught him. But he got away. Sao Feng's ship was captured by the Flying Dutchman the night I was taken on board. A crewmember and I made it up to the deck before being caught, and there he was." Some anger burned like embers in her voice. "Commanding the boarding party in a Company uniform."

She paused here, clasping her hands together in something of a guilty manner. "As it was, I knew then he had escaped with the heart. Beckett would've arrested him if he hadn't. We...exchanged some heated words, then, as we were on very different sides at the time."

It took her a moment before she could continue. "He came to the brig some time later and set us free. I asked what he was doing, and he said he was choosing a side." A swallow. "The Empress was being towed behind the Dutchman. He took us to where the lines were connected and directed us to get back to the Empress. It would have been successful, but ...

"I was hard on him, then. I was past the point of forgiving him, but it seems that you're not the only one the Company has lied to, Mr. Norrington. They had killed my father, something James had not known about but I still blamed him for." She released a shaky breath. "I told him to come with us, but …one of Jones's men caught us from the quarterdeck.

"He told me to go and that he would follow, but, you see, he must have forgotten that I'd known him for quite some time. He is…was really an awful liar." Elizabeth grew quiet and placed her fingers over her mouth. "But then Jones's man showed up. I started across and got a short distance away before looking back. James was still on the Dutchman, so I started going back to help, as the crewmember was advancing. He pulled a pistol, but instead of shooting at the threat he shot the line to free the Empress."

She frowned.

"I missed the next few seconds, as I had hit the water but…once I recovered, I saw that …the crewmember had stabbed James. He fell to the deck, and I could see no more."

A very profound silence cast a pall over the room. A pulsing pain had started up behind Edward's eyes. He must have looked exceedingly troubled as Elizabeth looked at him with concern, taking one of his hands. "Mr. Norrington, this must be a lot for you…"

He pulled away from her grasp.

"A lot for me?" He stood up suddenly, which he immediately regretted. Blood rushed to his head and edges of his vision blurred for a second, but he stayed upright in spite of swaying in an alarming manner.

"A lot for me?" he asked again. "That has to be the most outlandish story I've ever heard of!"

"I said you probably wouldn't believe me."

"Even so!" He grabbed up his jacket. "Mrs. Turner, Swann, whatever, I'm afraid you are right. This is a bit much. Do forgive me, but I must step out."

Only his age and sense of professionalism enabled him to get that out, for as soon as his arm was through the second sleeve, Edward walked out the door.


	5. Part V

**Part V: ****Tu fui, ego eris**

A pair of hands on his shoulders turned him away from the sight of brilliant smiles and festive decorations. A pair of lips met his. A familiar pair of lips.

He could not help but smile into her kiss as he felt the contents of his glass spill over his hand. "Dearest, your enthusiasm has spoiled the cuffs on the horrible jacket you bid me wear," Edward murmured, his free hand resting on her waist.

Katherine smiled back. "To be honest, I hate this jacket. The green is garish and the brocade on the lapels gaudy."

"And yet you insist I wear it. At least blue would've been more appropriate." He cast a tentative glance at the otherwise distracted group of people attending the party. His wife's musical laugh pleasantly overwhelmed the chamber group playing holiday concertos in the corner.

"You and your proprieties. Worrywort. You forget your daughter put the mistletoe up."

Edward glanced upwards and, indeed, there was the culprit plant hanging over their heads. Cursed, silly traditions. "My daughter?" he queried absently, turning to link his arm with hers.

"Yes, your daughter. I'd be hard pressed to produce one on my own without help."

"Katherine, please," he begged, flushing slightly but producing a small grin all the same. She laughed again.

Together, her hand resting in the crook of his elbow, they moved around the mass of party-goers. The attendees were a mix of relatives close and distant, friends, business associates, and naval officers.

The flow of people could be likened to honey as bottlenecks appeared around the space in the receiving room where two or three couples were dancing and in the halls.

A group of older ladies gossiped in one corner of the library. The smell of cigar smoke and h'orderves wafted lightly through the air, more a compliment than an insult to the nose. At one point, Alexander and a couple of his friends dashed through the gathering, holding aloft a tiny white glove belonging to a girl chasing after them in futility. Katherine wisely steered Edward away from the scene.

Occasionally, the question would come up, in one form or another, "How is young James doing?"

In truth, the Norringtons had not heard from their son in months. Supposedly, he was near to taking lieutenancy exams, but a mission involving some protection for the East India Trading Company heading east came up.

Katherine fretted. Edward avoided thinking about it.

But they would answer that he was fine all the same. Took to water like a fish, so to speak, very much in accordance with family tradition.

He was supposed to be home, though, for the holiday. That it was currently Christmas Eve and he was nowhere to be found was a little troubling.

Sometime later, a boisterous voice interrupted at least five different conversations around the front door. "Look who I found wandering the streets alone on Christmas Eve!"

Edward and Katherine were among those near the door and moved closer to see what was going on. Two people had entered. One was Horatio Godfrey the Third. Horatio, his curly black head speckled with white from the snow, gestured with one long arm towards the second snow dappled figure shaking precipitation from his overcoat.

That figure was James.

Katherine hurried over to kiss him on the cheek as he hung up his coat, much to the young man's chagrin.

Several other people came up to greet him and shake his hand. Edward hung back, watching. James had made sure to wear his best uniform, apparently – not quite as resplendent as the gold bedecked broadcloth Edward had for his own uniform, but quite neat and clean for a midshipman.

Katherine shooed away the initial flux of people so they could get away from the front door. But instead of the purposeful, direct stride they knew him for, James moved with a limp as he came up to his father. "Oh, James, what happened?" Katherine asked in dismay, noticing the change.

He refrained from answering at first, instead choosing to shake hands with Edward. "Welcome home, son," Edward said with his tight smile, using his free hand to slap James on the shoulder.

"I imagine you have some idea of how much of a pleasure it is to be home," James replied, his own smile a little broader. Edward allowed himself to bark out a laugh. Leave was always a welcome reprieve from months at sea. But while James said that now, Edward had a feeling anything longer than the allotted days would become stifling.

"As for this –" He gestured to where the leg of his trousers bulged slightly from a bandage above his knee. "The Indiaman we were running security for came under attack by pirates around Tripoli on the return trip. Got unlucky, I suppose," he offered with an abashed grin.

"Oh, dear," Katherine said, reaching out to squeeze his hand.

Horatio clapped him on the back, throwing an arm around his shoulders. "That's not quite what I heard, my friend," he said with an indiscrete knowing wink.

"Horatio, from that, I'd wager you're privy to some knowledge the rest of us unable to be wandering around at night on Christmas Eve are not," Edward drawled, setting a cool look upon his son's tall friend. At this point, the young man might as well have been related to them; James and Horatio had more or less grown up together and wherever one was, the other was sure to follow. Edward worked with Horatio's father, Horatio Godfrey II, for supply and acquisitions purposes. The two boys met when both fathers had them tagging along on some job-related venture and became fast friends.

"Spill it, lad."

James flushed slightly and shuffled a little under Horatio's arm. "Well…If you ask Mark Stevens, he'll liken the incident to Leonidas taking on the Persians, though with a much better outcome." He added the second part at the stricken expression that crossed Katherine's face. "Really, I was just doing my job."

"We drew up alongside the pirate ship to draw them off the _Hurley_ and prepared to board, but when our lieutenant, Lieutenant Kirby, gave the call, he was shot through the throat. In the mess, I was the only sort of officer, junior or not, the men had, as the second lieutenant had been shot overboard by a cannonball and the third and the captain were otherwise engaged on the quarterdeck."

James's shoulders lifted up slightly in a shrug. "So I led."

"The initial contact was fairly successful. I put the victory on the discipline of the men, which the pirates would have been better to target, but I suppose they figured if their officers were killed, they'd be rendered ineffective." This James said with something of an offended air and an apparent outward distaste for the strategies of pirates. "So one of them up in the shrouds aimed at me as the one who had led the charge."

Horatio placed a hand on James's arm, shaking his head. "This just our Jim being appropriately humble about his exploits. I found him with a shipmate who regaled me with the tale." He smiled brilliantly. "Quite the exploit."

Edward nodded to himself, appropriately impressed. "Not bad for your first battle, my boy," he said. "I'm glad you returned in one piece from it, as the rest of the officers on board seemed to have accursed luck."

"Luck certainly isn't an inappropriate term to use with regards to the entire escapade, in my opinion," James replied dryly.

"Oh, come now!" Horatio said suddenly. "It's the holidays, and so obviously your "luck" is either self-made or just a Christmas miracle." He snagged a glass of sherry straight from the hand of somebody walking past and took a swig. "Let us make merry. James the Pirate Slayer has returned home victorious, even if he is a bit shot up. If there's anything to celebrate, it's just that. And I'm sure there will be plenty of people who will absolutely die to hear about your little adventures on the sea. Sir, Madame, if you'll excuse us."

With that, Horatio toasted Edward and Katherine before skillfully turning his friend away and towards a group of people, one of which had spotted the duo and greeted them enthusiastically, prompting the rest of those assembled to do the same.

"Well…" Katherine said to no one in particular, watching them go with a pleasant smile. Edward sidled up next to her.

"I told you he'd be perfectly fine," he said.

"Edward, I'm his mother. I can't help it."

"I know." They shared a brief exchange of glances. "But he's a Norrington, by God, and a proper one at that."

…

"James Norrington."

Edward looked up from on his desk to the man standing in front of it. Admiral Paul Haddox leaned against the oak piece of furniture, hands flat on the desktop. A burly, glowering man, he had a presence that typically filled a room much like his waist line; Edward, however, had entirely missed Haddox's entrance.

"Er…eh, sorry," Edward said at first, blinking rapidly for a moment to switch his brain to English from sailing speak. He adjusted his glasses, which had slipped towards the end of his nose. "Norrington, you said? What about him?"

Haddox tapped an impatient finger on the desk. "You're familiar with the Dauntless?"

"Oh, yes."

The _Dauntless _was to go to the Caribbean to support Fort Charles and the fledgling town. After the disastrous earth quake of 1692, some fifteen or twenty years ago, Port Royal slowly began building itself back up, though not quite to its former glory. At least the quake made it less attractive to pirates in spite of their presence being rather large still in the West Indies.

"I've no doubt that she'll be the tip of the spear against all the rogue privateers in the area, given her firepower. The _Interceptor_'s made port some weeks ago, I've heard, so with the largest ship and the fastest we have free to send, I feel a strong move can be made to clean the dogs up and run them out."

Norrington nodded. "I fear I've missed the point. What does this have to do with Norrington?"

It didn't matter that the officer they spoke of was Edward's own son. They, James included, were professionals in a professional business, and Edward had seen politics run afoul of the mission far too often to let himself fall prey to nepotism.

James understood this quite well. Most of the time they were in the same place in an official capacity, the only way you'd know they were related were by name and by the way they tucked their hands in the small of their backs when idle.

But the distance tended to lean towards the extreme. Edward mostly left James to fend for himself, something some criticized him for. He felt he knew better, though; Edward's own father never held his hand through things, and Edward knew James was more than capable of managing his own blossoming career.

Haddox bowed his head for a second, tapping his finger again. "Norrington's got a nose for pirates, he does. Weatherby Swann, the man who is supposed to step up in Modyford's place, has even remarked the boy would be a good asset in Port Royal."

"How does Swann know him?"

"Swann and his daughter traveled from Bristol by water via the Hornet. The Captain, a Hamlydoan or somesuch, recommended Norrington to escort them."

"Ah."

Haddox leaned forward a little.

"There's no war going presently. The only chance any officer in this navy has of a decent promotion schedule lies in the Caribbean, where the action lies with the pirates and the Spanish and any other malcontents." He shrugged. "I understand your intentions, Edward, as a father."

By using his first name, Edward knew Haddox no longer spoke on an official level – he spoke as a friend.

"But a little push in the right direction isn't going to hurt anything."

Edward's eyes met Haddox's over his glasses, clueless for a moment before what his fellow admiral was saying hit him. Edward broke the stare with a decisive blink, scratching at the end of his nose.

"I suppose he does have a knack for rooting out the bloody bastards…"

"Knack?" Haddox straightened with a barking laugh. "Hah! Listen to yourself, Norrington! We both know you damn well know he does."

"…And if there's really a need for naval support in Port Royal," Edward continued, unruffled, "then I don't see a problem with it."

Haddox shook his head, wearing a thoroughly amused grin. "You devil. If I didn't know you like I did, I'd be offended," he said, turning to exit.

"You realize what it'll look like if I go make the request myself?"

Haddox paused and turned to him. "Pass the word through the boy to Hamyl-whatsit and sign it with the Admiralty. Get creative, man!"

Later that afternoon, Captain Drake Hamyldoan received Lieutenant Norrington in his cabin with a message from the Admiralty requesting his thoughts on further employment for his first lieutenant and if he would be opposed to transferring him to the _Dauntless_.

Hamyldoan had long thought Norrington's talents were wasted aboard a little gun ship like the _Hornet_, tagging along with convoys of Indiamen.

Norrington delivered the message back to Admiral Norrington's office himself.

He stood with his hands clasped behind his back as Edward read the letter. Occasionally, Edward would glance over the edge of the paper at him.

James would be staring right back, that terribly expectant light in his eyes belying the indifferent set to his mouth.

Edward set the letter down and regarded James for a moment. He leaned to the left to check the door was shut. For once, he allowed himself to chuckle, holding the letter up once more before him.

"James, your exploits have distinguished you from whatever remains of our name in the annals of British naval history. Not a soul should look you in the eye and say it was just your name that got you where you are, and if they do, accept their ignorance with grace and be content knowing the truth for yourself."

He stood and walked around the desk. "This is why I've let you forge your own path, so that nobody may say in good faith that you were ever waved up the chain by merely knowing and being related to somebody in that chain."

"Thank you, sir," James said, allowing his somewhat broader smile to break the military countenance that had reigned only seconds before. Edward extended a hand, which James shook eagerly and with excitement lighting up his expression. The Admiral caught himself smiling as well.

"James, my boy, you're on your way."

…

All night, Edward wandered.

His head was down, his hands in his pockets.

Memories like pale ghosts manifested themselves in his waking mind.

With them came a careful, methodical analysis of the path that lay before him.

He only realized the sun was rising when the light glanced off the water into his eyes as he once again found himself back near the bay. He paused, hands clasped behind his back, to look across the water.

In that moment, he made up his mind and pivoted on one heel to head a second time into town and towards a certain small abode situated above a bakery some blocks away.


	6. Part VI

**Part VI: Serva me, servabo te**

Estrella answered the door with a small bundle in her arms that Edward barely managed to notice until a tiny hand poked up from the swaddling. He winced and was able to lower the volume of his voice before he spoke.

"Is Mrs. Turner home?" he asked.

The woman shifted the very small child in her arms. "She's working today, I'm afraid, Mr. uh...?"

"Norrington."

"Mr. Norrington. She won't be back until the afternoon. If you'd like to wait…?"

"Oh, no. I don't want to disturb you. I'll just return to my lodging, but I'll try again later, then. Thank you, miss."

Edward jammed his hands back into his pockets and turned to leave. While he was a little disappointed to be delayed, there was an upside. He was dog tired after the events of the previous night, and sleep would not be an unwelcome thing. He weaved his way back through the streets to the inn, wilting like a plant in the sun.

The rest of the world might have ended within the next several hours, but Edward wouldn't have noticed. He walked into his small room, placed his glasses on the tiny nightstand and more or less fell face down on the bed without even removing his shoes. The next several hours passed by in oblivion, punctuated occasionally by a dream he would only half remember.

When he awoke, the sun had passed its zenith. Scrubbing the sleep from his eyes with one hand, consciousness came slowly. For a moment, he cast around to make sure he knew where he was. Elizabeth's story rushed back into his mind then and reminded him of his purpose. Stretching like a cat, he picked himself up off the bed, secured his glasses, and then checked the time. It was late afternoon; Elizabeth, hopefully, had returned from her work, whatever that was.

After partaking in a brief meal in the tavern, he set out.

The Caribbean heat did not let him down; the sunburn induced flush in his face was raging by the time he'd marched back across town. As he ascended the stairs once more, he lamented the aching in his knees and imagined that if the remainder of his hair hadn't turned grey at this point, it would be a miracle.

He raised a fist, hesitated a moment, then knocked. Momentarily, his knock was answered, this time by Elizabeth herself. The knitting of her brows betrayed the confusion her greeting did not. "Good afternoon, Mr. Norrington."

"Good afternoon," he replied.

"How may I help you?"

Edward opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. He glanced down at his feet a moment, chewing his bottom lip before trying again.

"Mrs. Turner…I wanted to apologize for my behavior. It was rude of me to react…as I did."

He was surprised by the weight of her hand on his shoulder. "Not at all, Mr. Norrington. I do realize how difficult it is to hear such things…"

"Indeed," he replied quietly. "I do want to believe it, as it is the first and only positive lead I've had in this mystery…But…if there was one thing you could do…anything at all…anything you could show me that would prove beyond a reasonable doubt what you said was true, I would be entirely in your debt."

"Anything…"

When he looked up, her eyes did not meet his. "Offhand, Mr. Norrington…I'm afraid there isn't much I could do." She glanced up, but her gaze was focused on something beyond him. "As you've discovered, most of those involved in the incident are dead or unreachable-"

She cut herself off then. Edward found himself arching an eyebrow; there was something she wasn't saying.

Elizabeth focused on him finally. "The only …person, for lack of a better term, that I could think of…" Her face fell, though, as she spoke. "Would be something you probably don't believe in."

"Mrs. Turner," Edward said levelly. "Just give me the name."

Elizabeth sighed. "Calypso. She commands the ship that ferries souls lost at sea, including James, to the other side."

Edward fought against the scoff rising in his throat, though he lost against the skeptical wrinkle of his nose. He knew the myths. Even so, he raised a hand to interrupt what was probably going to be a discouraged "I told you so."

"How do I find Calypso?"

…

The view of the cove was nothing like the coastal waters of England.

A gull turned in lazy circles overhead. Sun glinted off the water, glinting like quicksilver. The view to the bottom of the cove was crystal clear. This far from town the only sounds were the sea breeze whistling in the palms and the hiss of tiny waves over the sand.

Some yards away from the tide line, Edward kicked off his boots. In one hand he held a number of small, shiny black snail shells. He rolled up his trouser legs and wandered out into the water.

The beauty of the afternoon view was lost on him. A dubious scowl twisted his features, and he moved with a reluctant sort of purpose. He had never believed in voodoo and mythology; Devil's work, he called it. Yet, here he was, walking out into the middle of a shallow cove facing the east on the third Wednesday of the month with a handful of salt water snail shells from the mouth of the Pantano River. All according to plan, per the half-blind Haitian who frequented the far corner of the Glorious Salvo and just happened to be well-versed in local gods and goddesses.

Edward had heard the name Calpyso before; while a skeptic of most everything, he was not ignorant of the efforts of the Brethren of the Coast to tame the sea. Prior to Elizabeth Turner, Edward had been very secure in his view of the world. Now, though….

If a woman walked up to him from the depths of the sea…God's boons, he'd eat his hat.

He stopped once the water reached about mid-thigh and looked out towards the horizon. Opening the hand that held the shells, he took a breath and spoke, picking up and throwing a shell each time.

"Ammand the Corsair."

A plop from the shell hitting the water far ahead of him.

"Hector Barbossa."

Another.

"Chevalle."

"Mistress Ching."

"Gentleman Jocard."

"Sumbhajee Angria."

"Eduardo Villanueva."

"Jack Sparrow."

He paused. One shell remained in his hand. Again, he fought and lost against a pained rolling of his eyes.

"Elizabeth Swann."

The last shell hit the water. Edward waited, moving only his eyes, casting around for something. A sudden rising of the water. A wave. A flash of light. Something.

A full two minutes passed. He let his arms hang at his sides so that his fingertips brushed the surface of the water.

Still nothing.

A swarm of arguments and criticisms came rushing into his mind. Here he was, a grown man, an admiral no less, standing in the middle of an uninhabited code shouting pirate names to an empty sky. He was no closer to finding the truth of James's death than he was two months ago when he got the damned letter in the first place.

"This…is absolutely foolish."

This was his fault. If he had just left well enough alone, let the boy make his own career moves instead of tossing the Caribbean at him.

He'd be a commodore still if his damn, cursed dreamer tendencies hadn't gotten in the way. If the ever elusive Jack Sparrow hadn't come into play.

If. If. If…

Edward snatched his hat off his head suddenly and threw it, swearing furiously. He kicked at the water he stood in, cursing nearly any and every name that came to mind, particularly that of Calypso's. Spinning on one heel and reclaiming his hat, he stomped back towards the shore.

He got to within twenty feet when suddenly the water tugged at his ankles. Looking down, he found that the tide was rushing back out to sea. Small seashells tumbled along in the wake.

However, he turned in the same direction only to be slammed with a wave that was easily over his head. The wall of water knocked him off his feet and he tumbled along the sandy bottom much like a woe-begotten seashell caught in the tide.

He ended up on his back, coughing and spluttering as the water settled back down to normal levels. The world was a blur again, his glasses having been knocked off in the tumble. It wasn't so much his poor eyesight that caught him off guard as it was the blurry figure rising up out of the surf before him.

A woman's voice came to him through the fog as he scrambled for his glasses.

"Even aftah all de years ya've spent wit da sea…yah ah-ways persist in bein' de skeptic, Edward Norrington."

Edward succeeded in replacing his glasses at this point. His ready retort died on his tongue as the woman came into focus.

She wore a dress with many layers that moved and shimmered like the water at her feet and through many tones of blue, grey, and green. All manner of rocks, shells, scales, and other assorted oceanic items were sown into the…was it fabric? He wasn't sure.

Her skin was dark, like the island natives, her hair long and in dreadlocks. More things – shells, feathers, and more – could be found there like in her dress.

In her eyes the fury and capriciousness of the sea swept over him like a squall.

"You know me," was all he said.

The woman scoffed. "Of course. How could I not? You a man of de sea." She chuckled, the smile of a temptress turning curling her lips. "And, I am, after all…de sea."

"Calpyso." Edward moved to get to his feet, but Calypso beat him to it. She moved with a rapidity he was unable to anticipate and before he could do anything, she grabbed the front of his shirt and jacket and had hauled him up before her. He wasn't sure how it was possible, but his feet actually dangled a few inches above the ground.

Fury lit up her eyes like lanterns, and Edward could feel her voice rattling his bones. "Ya bold, Edward Norrington, tah stand in de ocean I command n' curse me own name!" The water around them began to rise alarmingly. Edward felt a real needle of fear striking his heart for the first time in years. He wasn't able to reclaim his voice until the water had risen up to his waist.

"How could I know? You've been locked away for so long, I-I-I can't help it if no evidence exists!"

While he flat out thought all legends to be just that – legends – he wasn't ignorant of all of them.

Calypso's eyes narrowed, but the water stopped. At least she seemed willing to listen.

"I suppose," she replied coolly. "What is it, Edward Norrington, dat brings ya tah call 'pon me?"

The water level remained where it was; Edward eyed it with suspicion as he spoke. "I…Somebody told me you could help me."

"How so?"

"My son has been killed. At sea, no less." He swallowed somewhat nervously. "I came here from England to find out how it happened, and I heard a tale from a young woman you may know that filled me with much doubt, in spite of it coming from the only person left alive able to help."

"De name?"

"Elizabeth Turner, née Swann."

Calypso's eyebrows arched with interest. "And she led yah tah me so as tah prove herself?"

"Yes."

She began laughing. The water levels dropped slightly. "Oh, irony. Yah may not believe me, but…de husband of Elizabeth Turner be a man named William Turner. William Turner be de captain of de Flyin' Dutchman."

Edward's mouth fell open, his brow knit in disbelief. His sharp tongue came back finally. "Now, that really is too much."

"T'is true, t'is true. She must 'ave promised tah keep his heart secret from de world. If der was one t'ing she coulda showed yah tah prove her tale, it would 'ave been the heart of William Turner. De captain of de Flyin' Dutchman cannae have one."

"So…?"

"I'll not get into de details, as it is a story too long and wearisome fah me."

Edward went limp in her grasp, his head hanging somewhat dejectedly. "Oh," he said. "Brilliant."

Calypso tilted her head sideways and looked steadily at the tired man at the end of her arm. "What Elizabeth Turner claims is true, dat much I can say. As for yor son, I have a feelin' him soul is still reachable."

Edward looked up her. "Really?"

She nodded sagely. "Let us say…de enemy of my enemy is my friend. Pirates," she practically spat, "be not my favorite creatures. You and your son have hunted them." She smiled.

Edward was silent for a moment, eyebrows up near his hairline. "So…what do you have in mind?"

"I can take you to de Flyin' Dutchman. Souls must travel aboard it to pass, an' it may be yah last chance."

"You'll not…require my own soul or a limb or some precious possession in return?"

Calypso chuckled. "For bein' such a logical man, ye know de ways of de gods, dat ya do. Nay. I will not."

"Why?"

"Yer a man of de sea, Edward Norrington. Your son was a man of de sea, and without him help, Elizabeth Swann mayn't have escaped de Flyin' Dutchman in de first place. I owe dis form to her presence…and his sacrifice, in a way. Compassion comes tah me fleetin' and difficult, as I am not human. What would I gain, dhough, taking away from a man such as you? Not revenge. Not pleasure, wicked as I am. I have no quarrel wid you."

Edward had a feeling that this was an exceedingly rare offer from a goddess who was as harsh and unforgiving as the oceans she ruled. Like much of the help he'd received of late, he wasn't about to let the opportunity go.

Where they would travel, he did not know. He didn't even know if it would work. He wasn't sure how souls worked once they separated from their physical vessels. If ghost stories were any indication, they were sad, lost, or angry beings who haunted people and places.

To see his son as one of them? It tugged at his heart to imagine it.

But he had to know. He had to try.

Calypso seemed to know his answer without him even saying it. The waters receded and she lowered him to his feet.

The powerful hand she used to life him with faced him, palm open. She reached out and placed it flat against his forehead.

He thought he heard his body splash into the water when the darkness slapped him into oblivion.


	7. Part VII

**Part VII: Nemo nisi mors**

Oblivion lasted about as long his attention span was when somebody began talking about politics. A flash of too many images and scenes for his mind to register at once and suddenly, Edward found himself standing amidships of an unfamiliar vessel on empty and equally unfamiliar waters. He stood there on the deck a moment, baffled and speechless.

The crew members on the upper deck must have felt the same. About a dozen men stood staring blankly at the man and woman who had so abruptly appeared out of thin air on their ship. Edward stared back, eyebrows raised so high they almost touched his slightly receding hairline. Out of his peripheral, he could see their surroundings.

It was dark, very dark and foggy. Oil lamps sputtered here and there. They were on a ship of fair size, white in color with white sails. No wind lifted those sails, however. A deathly calm cast a pallor over the setting even though an eerie whistling lived in the rigging. They could not have been on Earth any longer. Then the weight of Calypso's hand on his shoulder brought him back, the sharp crack of her voice breaking the ghostly silence that hung over the water.

"Captain Turner," she said, looking up at the man who stood at the wheel. Edward followed her gaze. The man was young and almost ridiculously so to be considered a captain. His gaze was steady and earnest, tinged with a sadness Edward had seen in many a sailor. So this was William Turner, husband of Elizabeth Turner and captain of the ship they were now on, the reputable and feared _Flying Dutchman_.

Turner looked down at the strange pair before him.

"Calypso," he replied evenly. He spread his hands on the railing. "What brings your …presence among us here today?"

The dry sarcasm in Turner's voice gave away the ever so apparent lack of respect or regard the man held towards the ethereal being he spoke to. Young, yes, but clearly able to handle himself. Edward looked at Calypso to gauge her reaction.

The goddess only smiled. "I appreciate de welcome." The crew stirred restlessly. There was history between these people; Edward could practically feel it. She gestured to him. "I come widda request of dis man."

"What be his request, and perhaps more importantly, who is he?" That earnest, thoughtful gaze turned itself on Edward then. It was not aloof or judging, as Edward half expected it to be. Perhaps a little curious, but Edward had an idea that due more to his disheveled and scruffy appearance. He too would be curious as to why and how a little old man with glasses, no hat, short scrubby hair, tattered and bloodstained jacket and rolled up trousers gained an audience with the goddess of the sea and now the captain of the _Flying Dutchman._

"I'll leave ya to it." Calypso patted his shoulder once with a sideways smile and disappeared. Edward watched her go, suddenly very aware he might be alone against the odds if the reaction to his identity resulted in dire consequences. Regardless, he cleared his throat and set his expression to neutral. With a flip of the proverbial switch, his uneasiness calmed itself and his characteristic steely countenance manifested itself. He was still an admiral, after all.

"I am Admiral Sir Edward Norrington, and I have come many a weary mile on behalf of my late son to determine his fate…" His brassy tenor never failed to fill a deck and today was no exception. But, he paused, casting a brief glance at the unassuming men gathered to watch on deck. "…and if possible, put a name to his killer."

A light murmuring rose up among the crew at about the same time Turner's face betrayed a very obvious recognition of the surname. Turner looked to them, though, to silence them.

"Enough." The chatter died down as he turned once more to address Edward. His face gave off an expression of sympathy. "Your son was James Norrington."

"He was. You knew him."

"I did, though more as an acquaintance than friend, though I have been told I owe him much."

"Indeed. I was fortunate enough to have met your wife, Captain Turner. It was she who pointed me in the right direction. You are very blessed to have her."

Turner smiled. "I remind myself of that every day, sir." He turned and headed down to the main deck, where he extended a hand to Edward. "Captain William Turner."

"Always a pleasure to meet the man who captains the Flying Dutchman," Edward replied. This garnered a short laugh from Turner. Automatically, the crew around them relaxed and continued about their business. Edward noted this with an impressed arch of his eyebrow.

Though Turner must still be quite new at commanding, the men seemed quite loyal and in tune with their captain.

"Indeed. Now, how can I help you, Admiral?"

"I am told by several people that this vessel ferries the souls of those who die at sea. Considering James was last alive aboard a sailing vessel, this one, as it were… it has been suggested you may know of where his resting place may be." He fought and lost against the pained expression that stole across his features. "Elizabeth's story was unable to fill that gap in my knowledge."

Turner reaction was difficult to place; Edward wasn't sure if the man was feeling guilt, interest, or the effects of a sudden revelation. "Believe it or not, sir, I do know where he is."

The captain's eyes turned upwards at a man who still stood near the wheel, an almost exact but older replica of Turner. Some relation, perhaps. The unknown man gazed sadly back at him. "If you'll follow me."

Edward followed in the young man's wake, noticing that the man from the quarterdeck followed as well. He had to strain to listen, though, as Turner began talking.

"As you must know, it was a crewmember aboard this ship that killed your son. I've confirmed this myself. After the events Elizabeth must have spoken to you about, we picked up James Norrington's soul. However, instead of moving on with the rest of them, it stayed. In fact, it followed one of my men around."

They headed towards the balcony behind the captain's cabin.

"At the time, I was unaware of it, but after some accounts from other members of the crew, it was determined that the man Norrington followed was indeed his killer."

"So now James's ghost is haunting him?" Edward finished, his voice giving away the weary skepticism once again rising in his chest.

"More or less," Turned replied over his shoulder with a sympathetic wince. Behind them, the other 'Turner' was silent. Edward and Turner stepped out onto the balcony.

"Recently, he hasn't followed him around as much, but has been haunting the walk here."

Edward looked over the space, an odd sort of clairvoyance coming over him. There was the railing Elizabeth must have climbed over. There was the place where the connecting lines must have been tied.

This was where James died.

He stepped forward onto the middle of the balcony, hands behind his back, eyes on the deck. Again, he wasn't sure what he looked for, but knew he would know it in turn when he found it. Turner's voice came to him from far away, as if in a dream.

"There's no particular trigger that I've noticed, but he appears through a fog, reenacts what happened as if rehearsing for a play, and then disappears."

Edward only half-listened.

This was where James died and where his ghost now haunted.

It was so much farther than he ever expected to get. By Jove, he was standing, alive, on the _Flying Dutchman_. How many people could make that claim?

But the question was still there – who had killed James Norrington?

The other man, the other 'Turner,' stepped out onto the balcony.

At about the same time, Edward's downcast eyes came across a pair of feet that had not been there moments before. A voice came to them, distant and echoing but sharp and rasping with authority.

"_Back to your station, sailor._"

He looked up sharply, and there, as if through a thin fog, stood James Norrington.

It struck Edward then that he hadn't seen his son since his assignment to the Caribbean. The blue and gold of his Company uniform was far more splendid than the simple blue and white lieutenant's uniform he was wearing when Edward saw him last. He still looked the same, but something about him communicated a burden had been on his shoulders. A worldly weariness had created lines of worry around his eyes. A sword hung ready in his hand.

"_Stand down. That's an order!_"

Those unseeing eyes looked beyond Edward now, worry creeping into them, slowly at first but faster and faster as time passed.

"_Steady, man!_" James raised a pistol. Edward's heart leapt to his throat. Its barrel pointed straight at him, but he was transfixed. He couldn't move.

Then his son's focus split. His eyes, fearful and concerned now, glanced furtively over his shoulder and then back again.

And again.

Where Elizabeth must have been shimmying across the line.

Then, he turned the pistol to where the line was supposed to be, and fired. There was no sound.

A rising panic restricted Edward's throat suddenly, and some driving instinct told him he was about to watch his son die.

"_No_!" The world around him fell away. He stepped forward and reached out to seize James by the lapels of his jacket and throw him to the side. Behind him, he only half heard Turner echo the cry.

Edward's hands closed on broadcloth.

A pistol clattered to the deck.

Silence.

Edward found himself staring into the green, very real, and very startled eyes of James Norrington.


	8. Part VIII

**Part VIII: Mortvi non Mordant**

Stunned silence.

Slowly, ever so slowly and with his eyes still locked with Edward's, James reached behind him to seek stability from the railing. The other hand clutched at his father's.

Edward was completely unaware of the unearthly chill originating from James's hand and spreading up his arms.

"James?"

He wasn't sure if he even got the name out, half closed as his throat was. The cloth in his hands was very solid, the man before him much the same in spite of the terrible cold. The world seemed to spin slightly as adrenaline filtered itself back out of his system.

James was silent, brow furrowed as he looked at the man speaking to him. It might have been some kind of confusion at being more or less snatched out of purgatory or the uncharacteristically disheveled appearance of his usually very strict, very professional father.

Something seemed to dawn in his expression, and James spoke.

"Father?"

Just a regular voice. No echo out of eternity.

Edward finally released James's coat, noticing then the sudden chill and paleness of his hands. "Impossible…" he muttered, unsure of what to feel apart from the tingling in his fingers. The end of the journey stood before him, but so did his son.

"Highly," James agreed, glancing past Edward at the other two men nearby. He seemed to recover a little faster than those assembled. However, his face grew stony as he took stock of the two. The tiniest sliver of something like pity pursed his lips. He then looked down and away. Edward followed with his own gaze, under which the older man squirmed slightly.

Captain Turner stepped forward then. "An explanation is due, I think. This," he said, looking to the other man, his older look alike, "is my father, Bill Turner."

There was a pause. Edward arched an eyebrow, motioning for the captain to continue. This man, Bill Turner, had some part to play in this. He just knew it. And from the way James avoided looking at him, Edward had a feeling of whom he was being introduced to.

Turner Senior stopped his son from speaking. He held his hands behind his back. "I am the one your son haunts because I killed him."

Edward, had he been some outsider looking in on the situation, things might have been different. Well practiced in reading people, he might have picked up on the aura of sobriety exhumed by the tall, bent man they called Bill Turner. He might have remembered how the captain still accepted him; granted, he might chalk that up to them being pirates, but he might have hesitated in judgment. Perhaps he would have realized there was something more to this story than just some no name pirate killing an admiral.

But that admiral was his son.

Edward, his own hands clasped behind his back, approached Bootstrap much like he did when dressing down a misbehaving subordinate who did not yet know his predicament. "Explain." He felt James stir behind him. The cold weight of his hand placed itself suddenly on his shoulder, but Edward did not acknowledge it.

He might not know the entire story and the man's straightforward nature was commendable, but judgment was passed; having Turner explain was merely a polite gesture mandated by propriety.

Bootstrap complied.

"I served under Davy Jones. By corrupting his purpose to ferry souls to the other side, he corrupted himself, his ship, and his crew. It's not something you may understand, but…the rule was part of the ship, part of the crew. Nobody left the ship, and over time, it corrupted. It made you part of it. I…"

The man paused, apparently remembering some difficult time.

"I was corrupted, my sanity taken in by the ship."

James cut in, then, his grip on Edward's shoulder quite solid. "It's true. Even with my gun in his face, he wouldn't stand down."

"I heard," Edward replied frostily, eyes narrow behind his glasses. James continued, not allowing Edward another word.

"I understand, though," he said. "I could tell something wasn't quite right with you at the time. It's why I didn't shoot."

Bootstrap looked up at him and bowed his head in thanks.

"I am grateful," Captain Turner said suddenly. "You know that I sought Jones to free my father. His death would have been…difficult."

James nodded and the tension lifted slightly, forgetting about Edward.

Hence why it was so surprising when his shoulder disappeared from under James's hand, and the two younger men found him, fists balled and the knuckles of one hand bleeding, standing over a shellshocked Bootstrap.

"Just what sort of weak-minded fool lets a _ship_ take his free will away?" he spat. There was little other than venom in his tone; fury had long since left the equation. Edward hunched down and grabbed the front of Bootstrap's jacket to pull him up slightly. Bootstrap flinched, ready in case of another strike.

When Edward spoke again, his lack of his expression belied the disdain in his voice. "Do forgive my behavior. The past few weeks have shown me I tend to get a trifle short, if you will, when I outlive one of my children."

Bootstrap nodded, somewhat shaken up from being punched in the nose. "Oh, no. I-I understand. There we have something in common." He nodded towards his own son, who seemed ready to pounce on Edward and throw him over the side of the ship. "During the fiasco Elizabeth must have spoken to you about, Davy Jones more or less killed my son, the man you see standing there." Edward spared a sideways glance at the young man. He certainly didn't look dead.

Bootstrap shrugged, something of a bemused expression on his face. "Admittedly, he doesn't exactly have a heartbeat, but there he stands nevertheless. I never got to punch Jones, but he did end up meeting a deserved fate."

Edward emitted a noise of interest in spite of himself. "Curious. Don't think, however, that wins you any favor. As you said, there he stands. Quite solid and rather alive, from what I can tell. All I shall have to return with to the remaining members of my family will be the confirmation that their son and brother is indeed dead."

The other man nodded sympathetically through his bloody nose. "I understand."

"Do you." There was nothing in Edward's voice that said he was convinced.

Edward released Bootstrap and straightened, adjusting his jacket and shaking the stiffness out of his hand. Captain Turner moved to help Bootstrap up, speaking as his did so. "We'll leave you to yourselves," he said and together, the two Turners left the balcony.

Edward turned back then to face James. With the distraction of the Turners gone, a heavy silence fell over them. Something like embarrassment pulled at James's expression, dropped his gaze to the deck. Edward found himself caught up in seeing his son for the first time in many years. The James he had been acquainted with was no longer there; this man, in spite of his face and voice, was a stranger.

"What are you doing here?"

James's question broke the spell. Edward coughed slightly and found that he couldn't quite meet his son's steadfast gaze. "I would say the story is long, but there's …really little to it."

"By all means, sir, continue."

"You do not have to address me as such. You're a grown man, and I withdraw my service within a month."

James winced. "Old habit."

Edward merely nodded, but continued. "We received your letter about your new station. Congratulations, by the by."

James tried to thank him, but instead, winced again. Edward moved onwards.

"Then I got the letter about your, uh…" He cleared his throat. "Your death. I tried inquiring, as there were only two lines on the damn thing. The Company shut me down, lied to me about you being in its employment. So…you know me. I can't leave a road once I start down it…and it led me here." A lame finish, but Edward wasn't quite sure what else to say.

"So you traveled all the way from England just to find out what happened?"

"Here I stand."

"And you have found out?"

"I have."

"Now what do you do?"

Edward opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. What would he do? What had he expected?

"I…don't know." Looking away he walked over to the balcony railing to rest his elbows against it. "Maybe I came here expecting to find you alive…maybe there would have been something I could have done to get back at the Company…I don't know. I just don't know."

Beside him, James shifted slightly.

"Maybe…maybe I'd know if this had just been another dead end. If your immortal soul had indeed moved on instead of being trapped on this damn, bloody ship."

Silence reigned once more. Neither man knew what to say. Edward stared miserably at the dark horizon chasing them across the glassy water. James stared at the place he had materialized.

"How is the situation at home?"

Edward looked up at James and did not receive a return look. "Well…we're getting along. It's been…difficult. We are by no means an exceedingly popular family, but those we have to love are well loved in return. Eliza married that fellow from Yorkshire."

"Wonderful. Congratulate her for me, if you will."

"Of course. Rest assured Horatio closed out your affairs on the legal side. Margaret's husband will no doubt enjoy forcing your reading material down their sons' throats."

James snorted humorously.

"I haven't seen your mother out of those earrings since she got them."

God, Katherine. How could he ever explain? Thinking on it, Edward did not know if she would ever come to accept the outcome of what they all must see as a wild goose chase. He would just have to cross that bridge when he came to it.

"How goes Alexander's army work? I lament that I have not kept up with him as I should have."

"Very well. It looks like a post in India is in his future."

"Excellent. It will be a good place to prove himself."

"Indeed."

Silence again, though less strained this time. Encouraging to say the least. Edward looked up again and this time was met by James's gaze. His son searched him and this time Edward was unsure if it was disbelief or humor that crossed his face.

"You look a mess," he said, pulling at his torn sleeve.

Edward barked out a laugh, chagrinned. "The road has been long and fraught with the perils of poor living conditions, extreme heat, and Company lackeys out for my head. The entire business has been a mess."

James made a face. "I imagine they lied to cover up the disaster that was Cutler Beckett."

"I agree. They've had your lieutenant, Groves, under their thumb, keeping him silent on the matter."

"Dogs, all of them. I'm glad he made it unharmed, though."

"I had the privilege of meeting Elizabeth Turner, as well, in my time in Port Royal. She was the one who pointed me in the appropriate direction. She too is getting along."

A genuine happiness lifted the fog from James's face. "Excellent," he said earnestly. "She told you everything, then, I surmise, considering you seem to have accepted the existence of this place, the ship, and other things."

"She did, and it was no easy task, mind you. Cutler Beckett is dead, killed by pirates. Groves, I believe, was one of the only survivors." He shrugged. "Perhaps fortuitous then that you're here instead of wherever Beckett went."

James emitted a rueful laugh. "Well, perhaps. There seem to be many different ways things could have turned out. I…had the opportunity to escape the night I helped Elizabeth and her crew."

Edward did not speak but waited for James to continue. "As you might know, she asked me go with her. The thought was…tempting, but…I couldn't." He paused, looking somewhat miserable. "It seems I cannot fight against my own nature, no matter the situation. I'm not a pirate and never could be. I found that out the hard way."

He looked up suddenly at Edward, who had put what was supposed to be a comforting hand on his shoulder. The cold was near unbearable, but he did it nonetheless.

"James, you should feel no shame. Even tempted by fate, you were never untrue to yourself."

A hopeful crease appeared at the corner of James's mouth, a small but noticeable gesture of appreciation.

Edward smiled his characteristic half-smile in return. "I only wish there was a way to bring you back," he said quietly, withdrawing his hand.

"There are times I may wish that as well, but I am content with my lot in life. Or death, rather. I've completed my purpose."

"Then what keeps you here? You bear no ill will towards that sad sack of a sailor."

"I suppose…" He shrugged, mouth twisting bitterly. "I don't quite know. It's nothing anyone here has done."

Edward was silent a moment, staring down at the frothy wake of the ship. He was startled by the appearance of what seemed to be ghostly figures swirling along in the eddies. Such a forsaken place, this purgatory. He did not envy Turner. Blanching somewhat, he turned away, searching for the proper words.

No pity crept through him as he looked at the pale apparition before him - merely pain. A frustrated sigh whistled through his nose. What could he say?

"James, I've said it once already. Those directly involved feel no ill will against you nor you against them. You should feel no shame."

James's expression was stormy. "Yet I do. Feel shame, that is."

Edward wanted to pry further, but he hesitated. An interrogation was not the way, as Katherine had told him more than once when one of the children got into trouble. They weren't one of his sailors, she'd constantly remind him. He doubted the situation was at all similar, but Katherine often played his conscience with a steady hand.

"I…"

He was blaming himself. After everything, James was blaming himself and denying his soul the one thing it needed.

"I think you need to let go."

When his son's eyes met his, they showed mixed emotion. Edward took his silence as a sign to continue.

"I know, James. I know why you waited that extra day to pursue Sparrow. I know what you did to get to Beckett. And I know what it's doing to you now. From the day you resigned, I imagine it must have been difficult to even face yourself in the mirror."

James turned fully to face him, brow furrowed but still listening.

"There is no shame in feeling failure, experiencing it. I would never advocate making excuses, but you must have been a desperate man in an exceedingly desperate situation. Opportunity presented itself. You can't blame someone for taking an opportunity."

"But I deserted …dare I say it, people who had more or less taken me in. Elizabeth…"

Edward's stern look silenced him. "Mrs. Turner feels no ill will towards you, either. Damn it all, even Calypso herself said something similar, and to put it nicely, she tends to be of a spiteful nature. My boy…" He seized James once more by the lapels. "You need to forgive yourself. Believe me, the habit of self reproach is highly cyclical in nature and once set in motion, cannot be stopped."

Some manner of revelation slowly crossed James's face as Edward released him. "Forgive yourself. As much as it pains me to see my own son pass on before me…as much as it greatly pains me…" He had to pause for a moment, as his throat threatened to close up on itself. His vision swam slightly. "It is more painful to see you trapped here like some ethereal prisoner with no hope of salvation. Let it go. Redemption was yours that day, regardless of what you may think, and that day is long in the past. Let it go."

What Edward saw then in his son's face was not the conflicted storm of guilt, but something else – the edge of relief. Edward shrugged, relieved himself but not feeling much better for it. "If anything, blame me. If I hadn't mentioned the Caribbean in the first place…"

"No." The curt negative cut Edward off. "I made that decision of my own accord," James said, bending to pick up his fallen pistol and tuck it into his belt. "The very last thing that needs to happen now is to have somebody blame themselves for my death."

The two Norringtons stood facing each other, the easy silence of familiarity falling over them. Voiceless communication, the kind that made one think they could read minds, passed between them. James, always the one easier to smile, did so with an easy confidence.

The poignant vacuum that had threatened to stifle Edward the day the letter arrived had returned, but he let it stifle. There really was nothing he could say more. The silent approval radiating through the space between them was clear and, by the peace beginning to calm the storm on James's brow, received.

James reached into the breast pocket of his coat and pulled something out: a pocket watch. It was brushed silver with an anchor and his initials, JMN, stamped into the cover. Edward had a similar one in his own pocket. Some years ago, Katherine had them made for the three men in her life – Edward and her two sons. Alexander's was decidedly less naval in nature, but they were a set all the same. James held it out.

"I realize the circumstances in which we stand are…improbable, to say the least. This may ease the understanding some, at any rate to those not present."

Edward took the watch, brow furrowing as he did. The thing was real enough; the deathly chill bit into his skin, but soon began to ebb as the watch rested in his hand. "It will make the trip back?"

James shrugged, wincing. "Your guess is as good as mine, really."

Edward surprised himself by barking out a hoarse laugh. "By God, this is a fine mess indeed."

He looked up to find James smiling humorously. "I'm sure it shall turn out fine."

"I should like to think so," he replied, tucking the watch into the breast pocket of his coat, next to his own pocket watch. James extended a hand that Edward took after an almost reluctant pause.

His son stood before him. He had a feeling a handshake would mark the end of the journey.

"I trust you'll take care of everyone," James said quietly.

"I've never stopped," Edward replied.

The same professionalism that kept them stalwart under fire also kept them from doing anything more than shake hands. That was enough, though.

Neither man was known to be very affectionate.


	9. Part IX

**Part IX: Dum vivimus, vivamus**

Underfoot, the deck heaved up as if being kicked by a giant. Edward suddenly found himself being tossed up into the air by the aftershock of a cannon ball that streaked through amidships like a bat out of hell. He released his sword with a surprised shout as he tumbled through the air.

"Well, this isn't quite right at all," his mind muttered.

The view was informative. Some chainlengths away, the Company ship they had been escorting was beating frantically away, listing badly but managing to stay afloat. Cowards, he thought. They were floating; the least they could do was come back and help.

The pirate ship they now fought was close enough that the two ships traded broadside after broadside and could hit each other no matter the size of the waves. Men scrambled around on the respective decks, some fighting, some dying, and so on and so forth.

The edge of the ship shot by as he ultimately landed headfirst, limbs flailing, into the ocean below. He recovered a few seconds later, whirling in the choppy surf between the two battling ships. Around him debris sank into the darkness some yards below. Occasionally a body would follow the charred and broken pieces of ship, trailing a dark ribbon of blood behind it.

Then he realized he couldn't breathe. Emitting bubbles at an alarming rate, he scrambled up towards the sun dappled surface.

The sounds of the battle crashed into his ears as he broke the surface with a gasp. Breaking into an overhand stroke, he swam back towards his ship.

After being scraped up considerably by the barnacles clinging to the underside of His Majesty's Ship the _Summerset_, he managed to find handholds enough to begin the climb back up to the deck.

As he clambered over the deck rail, he found things had somehow managed to go quite wrong since he'd been tossed overboard. It took only a second, but he saw most of his fellow men bound by pirates. The captain, Jonathan Brigsby, had two gnarly looking individuals holding him by both arms while the enemy captain stood speaking to him.

It also only took a second for Edward to snatch up a fallen pistol near the rail and take aim at the pirate captain.

"Damn you, you dirty wretch!" he shouted.

The next second, however, a fiery knife of pain lanced through his shoulder. The pistol clattered to the deck, Edward following shortly after. He hit the deck hard on his back, seeing stars as pain began to blossom across the right side of his chest.

"Good God," he thought in amazement. "I've been shot."

Things began to grow terribly quiet then as his vision tunneled. The last thing he saw was a figure standing over him with a smoking gun and a sneer.

**…**

Horatio Godfrey the Second leaned his hip against the dining room table. He crossed his arms over his chest, an uncharacteristically grim expression on his face. In the seat across from him sat Katherine Norrington, her hands clasped tightly together in her lap.

"It may just be speculation, Katherine…Rumors. Hearsay."

The woman's green eyes darted up to look at him. "Do you really think so, Horatio?" she asked, the strain in her voice quite obvious in spite of the mostly flat expression she wore. "Could the Summerset have escaped? And the men aboard…?"

Horatio pursed his lips, frowning. He opened his mouth once, stopped, and then looked away. "I don't know…It's always hard to determine these things."

"But the Company ship they were shadowing said it had happened."

Their eyes met. Now Horatio could see the tears beginning to form in Katherine's eyes. His usual blustery and hard-nosed self softened. He rounded the table and took the chair next to Katherine.

"Katherine…"

"No. I won't believe it."

"It's highly unlikely…"

"I don't care." She stared at him, defiant in spite of the shimmering of her eyes. "There hasn't been a Norrington killed in combat since the Spanish Armada. He has to come back..."

**…**

It was the shouting that caught Katherine's attention. She looked up from the stock of fish she was looking at to buy, squinting in the sun. There was a tug on her skirts.

"Mummy, look! There's a man running." A small Margaret pointed at a tall, skinny fellow running through the fish market. Katherine turned to look, hushing her daughter in order to hear the man better.

"The Summerset! They've recovered the men from the Summerset!" he was shouting.

The sinking of the _Summerset_ made the papers a week after the incident, upon which Mr. Godfrey had hurried over to the Norringtons'. The rumblings were just barely starting to die down – that pirates actually sank one of His Majesty's ships was unheard of, and the outrage was surprising.

"They're down at the docks now!"

Katherine's basket of groceries fell forgotten to the ground as she snatched Margaret up and sprinted towards the docks.

It took three frantic minutes and another one yet to cut through the crowd that had formed. She broke through the group to the front, breathing heavily. Ahead of her several people had broken out of the crowd and hurried forward to meet men filing off a newly docked ship. Occasionally the crowd would clap, particularly when it was a young woman running up and throwing her arms about a missing husband or brother.

There was general silence when a concerned family member stepped forward to meet nobody.

Katherine cast around, looking at each man as they stepped off the ship. The hopes she had barely let rise fluttered in panic in her chest. On her hip, Margaret looked around with wide eyes, not understanding why her mother would just grab her up like that.

Then, she saw him.

She noticed immediately how he walked with a slight stoop. A man she recognized to be the _Summerset_'s captain, Jonathan Brigsby, had his hand on his lieutenant's shoulder as if he was steering Edward along.

She wasn't long in noticing the sling he wore and the gauntness in his face, but she ran to him all the same. He had barely stepped off the gangplank and turned towards her when she more or less barreled into him. Her free arm went around him in an embrace, her head into his shoulder.

"Daddy!" Margaret cried with glee and threw her own tiny arms around his neck.

All Edward managed to do was laugh even through the pain in his chest and arm caused by the jolt, but he used his good arm to support Katherine nevertheless.

And he held her as she wept.

**…**

The fleet of longboats spread out behind them like a glittering veil in the graying predawn of the Locker. William Turner looked after them pensively. So many… The sound of unfamiliar footsteps on the quarterdeck stole his attention away. He turned to find Edward Norrington mounting the stairs.

The expression on his weathered features gave nothing away, but Turner did note that he came alone. Edward stopped near the ship's wheel, one hand in the small of his back and the other hanging at his side, holding James's watch. An eyebrow set at a nondescript angle, he spoke. "I don't suppose you'd know how to summon Calypso again, would you?"

Captain Turner thought a moment. "Not particularly, I'm afraid," he replied. "She tends to come and go as she pleases."

Edward nodded ruefully. "Of course," he muttered. Turner appeared not to hear.

"Does your son still haunt the walk?" he asked hesitantly.

Edward was silent a moment. A fleeting shadow crossed over his features, but was too fast to be registered. "No. He needed no guide but himself," he replied.

Turner perked up a brief moment before Edward felt the pressure of somebody's hand on his shoulder.

"Him passed on," came the velvety tone of Calypso's voice into his ear. "T'ank ye, Captain. We'll be movin' ahn."

The young man merely nodded in return. Edward raised a hand in farewell just in time to be swept away by the strange blackness that brought him there in the first place.

The gentle rumbling of the surf hissing over the sands woke him some time later. When Edward opened his eyes, he found himself looking up at the sky, on his back half in and half out of the water.

On its nightly descent, the sun glowed warmly at him from its place in the sky as it cast oranges and red over the glassy surface of the water. Fading vestiges of a green light dissipated in the ruddy sky. He was alone.

He sat up gingerly, feeling every movement in the tingling of his limbs and every grain of sand caught in his clothes. Upon looking around, he determined that he was back on the same beach. The tips of his toes sticking up out of the surf were blurry, though. He moved to reach for his glasses only to find something already in his hand. With his free hand he recovered his glasses and put them on as he lifted the object.

It was a pocket watch, coated in patchy, wet sand.

Edward's free hand placed itself against his chest and felt the familiar round lump that was his own pocket watch.

He swiped a thumb over the surface of the one in his hand to move the sand.

In swirling monogrammed letters, 'JMN' stared back up at him.

The beach would be empty moments later.

His hat stayed, forgotten and drifting up and down the beach with the tide. His boots cast long shadows over the sand.

…

Edward arrived home in quite a different state than when he left.

The group of venerable ladies accompanying Katherine for afternoon tea nearly had a fit when he stepped into the den to announce his arrival with no hat, rope sandals, clothes that had been a different color once upon a time, and smelling like he had been dragged across the bottom of the ocean.

Katherine, on the other hand, was quite pleased to see him. Her group of friends set upon her with questions the second he withdrew his head from the doorway.

After he had left Katherine and her tea time friends, he immediately had a bath run and cleaned himself up. Freshly scrubbed and in just his shirt sleeves, Edward sat before a pleasantly crackling fireplace with his feet propped up. He rested his teacup and saucer on his lap, occasionally taking a sip and reveling in the blended aroma of bergamot and lemon that greeted his nose. Regardless of the tea, he always took a slice of lemon with it. Katherine jokingly called him a sourpuss for the habit.

James's pocket watch had fallen off his leg and was caught between him and the armrest.

Katherine's soft step on the carpet caught his ear. Her friends must have left.

She spoke at the same time her hand ran through the month's new growth of sparse, graying hair on his head. "I appreciate the stir you caused among the ladies," she said, kneeling down next to his chair.

His eyes crinkled in slight amusement as he took another sip of his tea. A lingering numbness would not allow his mind to think much past the quality of his tea and warmth of the fireplace through the soles of his shoes. "Oh, I'm sure it'll stir up gossip for some time," he murmured cynically into his cup. "If anything, they needed it. This place has been stagnant for long enough."

Katherine rested her chin on her hands on the armrest, smiling. "Now, tell me how you came to look so roughed up in the first place." The reedy strain in her voice gave away her apprehension.

Edward set his teacup on the other arm of his chair and laced his fingers. He had taken the three week return trip to figure out how to explain everything. There was little other proof apart from the mostly healed bullet score on his arm and the pocket watch. He'd have to get new glasses, as well. It was almost hard enough to see with them on than without due to the numerous scratches gathered over the journey.

He turned his head to look Katherine in the eye. She gazed steadily back at him, waiting.

"Sit here on the footstool. You'll be more comfortable," was the first thing out of his mouth. He sat up and removed his feet, keeping a steadying hand on the watch. She acquiesced in silence.

He took her hands in his. The frustrated skeptic fought its way to the surface, and he emitted a short sigh, brow furrowed.

"Katherine, you know me better than I know myself…so please hear me out."

Her expression fell just short of concerned. "Edward, the last thing I'm going to do is interrupt you. You know that."

Edward leaned forward to plant a kiss on her forehead. "I do, dearest. It's just…what I am about to tell may be difficult to take."

She nodded for him to start.

So he did.

Katherine listened quietly and attentively, her hands in his. Edward told the story just as he had practiced all the way back from the Caribbean. He told the truth, every blessed word of it.

As he spoke, the numbness gradually wore off.

He didn't realize tears were running down his face until Katherine reached up to brush one away.

At the end, the next conscious breath he took was long and shaky. He picked up James's watch to show her, half delirious and believing that Katherine thought him insane.

"Katherine…I walked him to his grave. Our own son…I-I-I shook his hand into the afterlife…I…"

Katherine's hand closed over his and the watch and she drew him close in an embrace. Her shoulder smothered whatever it was he was about to say.

And she held him as he wept.

…

A short time passed.

Edward retired. Those attending the official ceremony were many in number. Those attending the post-ceremony festivities were kept to a select few. Katherine and Edward sold their house in London and moved out to coast. Something about Edward's health. This was absolute poppycock, but they needed new scenery. Leaving their social circle for no good reason just wasn't quite proper. The health angle was very believable, thankfully, due to Edward's slight build and advancing age, so they were able to get away without much ado.

The new house was in the south and close enough to Portsmouth, the origin of the Norrington family, that Edward could oversee the placement of a particular headstone in a particular spot.

The wind whistled through the cemetery like the reedy breath of a flutist through a poorly made flute. Edward huffed his way up the hill to the top where a new marker had been placed. There, placed so that it faced the ocean, was a white marble fixture. It was relatively simple, modest in comparison to some of the slightly obnoxious ones of long dead relatives bearing the same last name.

Edward stopped before the marker, eyes lingering on the bold, disciplinarian _Norrington_ splayed across the top.

The wind, a bit chilly for October, cut across his shoulders. He jammed his hands in his pockets and hunched a little further into his scarf. Katherine would not let him out of the house without it.

"Well…" he began, glancing over the words on the marble surface. "Seems like they got everything right."

His name was spelled properly, the dates were spot on, and the message at the bottom read just as Edward had wanted it to: "Brought light to where there was dark."

The phrase was coined by Weatherby Swann in a letter back to the Admiralty about the piracy situation in the Caribbean. A little flowery for Edward's taste, but Katherine thought it quite appropriate.

"Admiral!"

Edward turned to look down the hill. A stick-legged figure hurried up towards him in great strides. "I'm retired, Mr. Godfrey," Edward deadpanned as the young man drew closer. Horatio grinned, slowing to a stop before him.

"Apologies. Old habit." His breath came out in little puffs of steam that disappeared above his head. "It looks quite good," he said, gesturing to the marker. Edward nodded.

"Indeed."

"I wonder if it's a result of you threatening the break the fingers of the carver if he happened to mess it up."

"Either way, it got the job done."

Horatio's brassy laugh echoed off the headstones.

The two men stood there in silence. Edward rummaged into his jacket pocket for something while Horatio turned to look out across the horizon.

"A good spot, as well, I'd say," he murmured. "Jim would have liked it, I'm certain."

Edward did not reply. Instead, he pulled out his pocket watch and set it at the base of the marker. The swirling letters glinted up at him as he returned his hands to warmth of his pockets. In the left pocket, his hand closed around a second watch, James's. The thing hadn't worked since it came back with him.

That was all right, though. He had no need to know the time anymore.

Horatio looked back, looking at the watch and then Edward.

"So it's done," he said quietly, his own hands finding their way into his pockets. Edward turned a brief glance on the lawyer.

"It is," he replied.

"I'm sorry that the last time he was in England…"

"Don't waste breath over regrets, Godfrey," Edward said suddenly. "There's no place for it." He glanced up to find Horatio looking at him. "As much as we wish for the deceased to be here with us…life is for the living."

He turned away from the marker to start down the hill, putting a gloved hand on Horatio's upper arm to draw him away, as the taller man's shoulder was out of reach.

"Just live, my boy. Live."

* * *

><p>AN: Thanks everybody for reading! I'm glad that such an OC-heavy story was liked by you guys who have read, reviewed, and added to your respective Favorites. Much love all around, and thanks again for sticking around for the first multi-chapter fic I've actually finished in quite some time. If the flow in this last chapter is weird, please say so. I waffled a bit on deciding how to break it up between past and present.<p>

Thanks again!


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